Star Fox: Trial By Fire
by Unryu
Summary: Following his father's death, Fox McCloud began a transformation from a talented, young pilot in the Cornerian Defense Forces to a mercenary entrusted with the fate of an entire star system and its billions of inhabitants. This is another look at the cla
1. Chapter 1

STAR FOX: TRIAL BY FIRE 

**Author:** Unryu

**Disclaimer:** Star Fox and all related characters (except those created by me) are owned by Nintendo. This fan fiction is for entertainment purposes only and may be freely distributed provided I am given due credit. Rated T for some scenes containing strong language and violence. If you are offended by such material, please do not proceed further.

**Author's Note:** For some readers who have been following this piece from the beginning, I made a few very minor cosmetic changes to Chapters 1 and 3. Apparently Nintendo now reports that Fox and Bill have been friends since childhood, and while I promised myself I wouldn't let details from Star Fox Command affect material I had already written, I decided to make an exception in this case, as it may affect Bill's further role in this story. Bill and Fox have now met "on the playground" as children rather than "as first year cadets" at the academy. The remainder of Chapters 1 and 3 reads exactly as before.

**Prologue**

"Okay, I think that should do it." James McCloud smiled in satisfaction as he made the final adjustments to the small antigravity unit. Calibrating its micro circuitry was a difficult and time-consuming operation, and even the slightest variation in its field pulses could cause a loss of control. However, the lengthy process was finally at an end. All that remained was attaching it to the model starfighter. Closing the small access panel, the fox's gaze wandered from the black, hemispherical device to the surrounding basement. Various instruction booklets, mechanical parts, and electronic pads lay strewn across the cluttered wooden table before him, a testament to the hours of labor that had gone into the project over the last couple of weeks. Every moment that could be spared found him acquiring necessary parts or working in this cramped, untidy room with Fox. True, neither of them was an engineering expert, and it had definitely taken its toll, but it was well worth it. In the entire world, there was nothing James enjoyed more than spending time with his son.

The vulpine leaned back in his seat, stretching as a tremendous yawn split his maw. What time was it? He glanced wearily at his watch, blinking as the display read 0630. "Morning already? Mmm, no wonder I'm so tired." Another yawn—wider this time, "I think I could use some coffee." Rising to his feet, he ran one hand through the scruffy, matted fur on the back of his head, "Or maybe I should turn in for a little while." The heavy boots that he had neglected to remove made dull, clomping noises on the floor as he made his way to the stairs, pausing with a chuckle as he beheld a small, unconscious form sprawled unevenly across them.

"Rise and shine Junior," James said, leaning against the banister.

"Mmm," the kit groaned. His father's voice was slow to draw him back into the woken world.

The elder McCloud chuckled again, "I guess you couldn't keep up with me after all huh?"

"Mmm…huh--! Ugh, I'm awake! I'm awake!" Fox sat up sharply, shaking his head to rid it of cobwebs as he looked up with heavy, sleep-laden eyes. "One microlite scanner right?"

"It's okay Fox. I got it myself hours ago," James smiled softly, seating himself next to his son. "You really should have gone to bed and let me finish it."

"No way Dad! We're a team remember," the young vulpine replied.

"Yeah, and I'm proud of you," James said, placing an arm around him. "You were a big help, and you stuck with it every step of the way."

Fox eyed the green-and-white ship on the table eagerly, his sluggishness evaporating like magic, "When can we fly it?"

"It's all finished. We can try it out today if you'd like."

"How about right now?"

"Hmm, I don't know," his father said. "It's kinda early to be awake on a Saturday. I think we could both use a few hours of decent sleep."

"Aw, c'mon Dad," Fox pleaded. "Just for a few minutes? I promise it won't take long."

"How about this afternoon? Knowing you, I think it would be a lot longer than a few minutes," the elder McCloud remarked, suppressing a grin. Anything remotely dealing with aviation was certain to occupy the kit's attention for hours on end. Of course, he noted that he was no different when he was a youngster. He was born to fly.

"Please? I just wanna see if it works."

James thought for a moment, weighing the prospect of a shower and crashing into bed for a well-deserved nap against the look of disappointment on his son's face. Though he was exhausted, it was tough to say no to Fox's enthusiasm. At last a weary smile tugged at the corner of his muzzle, "All right Junior. Let's see what she can do."

---

The first rays of the morning sun brightened the eastern sky as father and son ventured out into the backyard. Though modest in size like the house, the absence of trees and overhead obstructions made it an adequate place to send the model Thunderbolt on its maiden flight. The dew still clung to the wet grass, and the sleepy birds were slow to begin their morning songs. With the exception of the McClouds, the neighborhood was almost silent. No one else was awake.

"Fox, will you do the honors," James asked as he set the fighter on a clear patch of ground.

"All systems active!" Fox replied as he keyed the flat control pad in his hands. "Nova Base, this is Alpha 1 requesting permission to take off."

"Kzzt--Alpha 1, this is Nova Base," James grinned, playing along. "Permission granted. Get off my runway!"

As the younger vulpine pressed gently backward on the control pad, the Thunderbolt came to life and slowly rose into the air with a soft whirring noise. A few moments later the miniature thruster jets engaged, and in no time at all, Fox had it soaring high overhead, pitching and rolling the model fighter this way and that.

James smiled contentedly, pulling a pair of shades from his shirt pocket as Solar's disc peeked over the horizon. He didn't feel so tired anymore. "Looks like everything checks out. Whaddya say we—" Before he could finish, a sharp crack and a bright, blue flash jerked his gaze back to the model. The antigrav unit had burned out. Veering out of control, the once graceful bird dropped like a stone into the unyielding sidewalk pavement at the edge of the yard, sheering off its wings and crumpling its fuselage against the concrete.

"Oh no!" Dropping the pad, Fox dashed over to the remains of the craft, his father following at an easier pace. It didn't take an aerospace engineer to see that it was completely ruined. Trying to repair it would take even longer than starting over from scratch. James dropped to one knee, sighing as he grimly examined the smashed body of the vehicle. They were back to square one.

"We can fix it—can't we Dad," Fox asked half-heartedly, holding up a severed wing.

"Hmm, I don't know," James murmured. "It got bashed up pretty good—and not just the frame." What a tough break this was. They had both looked forward to flying the model for a long time, and a couple of minutes in the air were hardly satisfying after weeks of painstaking work. He watched his son kick a piece of gravel dejectedly and sit down.

"Aw man, it'll be a month before we can put another one together," said Fox as he watched a short-range fighter streak overhead on its descent vector toward the nearby airbase.

"Maybe not quite that long," James mused. "This time we know how to build it. We'd have it done twice as fast." He paused, following the craft's trajectory as it set down on the far end of the main runway. A smile crept back onto his face. "Wait, I think I have a better idea…"

---

"You strapped in nice and tight Fox," James asked as he climbed into the rear seat of the ST-4 sub orbital trainer. Used mostly for third year cadets, the craft brought back memories of his days at the Cornerian Space Academy. An old workhorse, it was practically useless in real combat against modern interceptors, but it was still reasonably fast and fun to pilot. He had earned his wings in these ships, logging hundreds of hours at their controls, and it felt good to take one up for a short hop again. It was like being reunited with an old, familiar friend.

"Yeah, I'm ready Dad," Fox grinned eagerly, giving a thumbs-up from the front of the cockpit.

The elder McCloud smiled, "All right then—let's do some REAL flying." He engaged the startup sequence. The canopy descended gradually until it locked into place, while the engine roared to life with a high-pitched whine. Under the power of its landing thrusters, the ship rose off the ground smoothly to hover 30 feet above the runway. "Hang onto your hat Junior," James smiled, throttling up. A slight jolt pushed them back into their seats—the inertia from rapid acceleration subsiding a bit as he pitched the nose upward into a steady climb. After a few moments, he glanced at the altimeter. "Hope you're not afraid of heights," he said as he banked left, allowing a view of the ground.

"Wow!" Fox exclaimed, his eyes roaming over the landscape. "Everything's so small! I can see our house from here!" Glancing over his shoulder, he studied the tiny buildings far below, "Is that the base?"

"Yep," his father nodded, "And that's Corneria City just on the horizon," he gestured with one hand. Despite being the jewel of the Lylat System and home to more than half its population and industry, the factories and transportation systems were all built in perfect harmony with the surrounding ecosystem. As a result, the minimal air pollution afforded excellent visibility in all directions. For a few long moments James circled in a wide, lazy spiral, allowing the younger vulpine to gaze at the earth from high above. It was quite gratifying to see Fox's expression as he pressed his nose against the canopy—drinking in all of it. The kit was having the time of his life.

"How much higher can we go," Fox asked.

"All the way to the edge of space," James replied. "But it's most maneuverable right about here." With that, he pulled back and left on the control stick to put the craft on its tail.

"Whooooah," Fox blinked in surprise as he suddenly found himself upside down, but he recovered almost instantly. "Cool! Do it again!"

James chuckled and barrel rolled the craft a few times, "How's that?"

"Yeah!"

"Uh-oh, I got a bandit on my six!" James laughed, "Can't shake him!" Carefully keeping shallow pitch angles and changing directions at half-speed to minimize G forces, the elder McCloud threw the craft all over the sky. Banking, diving, climbing, looping—he moved effortlessly from one maneuver to the next, the trainer becoming an extension of his body. He felt truly at home in the sky, almost as much as the birds themselves.

"Yaaahoo!" Fox whooped. With a final somersault, the sky and earth returned to their proper places as James righted the ST-4. "This is way better than flying a model!"

"When you're older, if you get accepted to the academy you'll be flying one of these on your own," his father said.

"And when I get out, I'll be flying with you right," the kit asked, already jumping ahead.

"Mmm, I don't think command is too keen on assigning family to the same units Junior," James said. "But I'll never be far away," he continued as he banked gently to the left again.

"I know," Fox nodded, looking over his shoulder. "You've never let me down before."

"And I have no intention of ever letting you down," James said. "I'll always be here for you Fox. No matter what happens, I'm always behind you one hundred percent. Never forget that."

**Chapter 1**

_Fourteen years later…_

Peppy stared at the photographs on the table before him in silence. In one frame stood his best friend and comrade, James McCloud, wearing his flight suit and trademark aviator's sunglasses. Against the backdrop of an old ST-4 trainer, the vulpine grinned as his young son sat atop his shoulders. The hare sighed quietly. He remembered that afternoon at Sky Eagle Base very well, as he had taken the picture himself. His gaze wandered to the more recent photograph in the other frame, which contained two equally familiar figures. James and Fox were there once again, standing in front of the Cornerian Space Academy Flight School. While the elder McCloud had changed only slightly, the handsome, confident, uniformed cadet beside him hardly resembled the kit of years past. Indeed, Fox was a natural born pilot and at the top of his class. He could fly rings around the practice drones, endure weeks of harsh survival training, navigate any asteroid field, and fell a gnat with a laser pistol. Intelligent, strong, and brave, his father could not have been more proud of him.

Bowing his head, Peppy removed the pictures from their frames and carefully placed them in a small, cardboard box along with a pair of dog tags and some other personal articles. Lastly, he pulled a small, black marker from his pocket and scrawled across the lid: COMMANDER JAMES MCCLOUD – STAR FOX ELITE STRIKE UNIT. Well, that was it. Only one thing remained, but how would he ever find the right words to tell Fox of his father's fate? In all his life, the hare could not recall a father and son that shared so strong a bond. Knowing the news would be devastating and possibly affect the cadet's performance during his final proficiency exams, Peppy had refused any visitors for the last two weeks while he recovered in the hospital. However, graduation was in a few days. He could delay no longer. After a last look around, the veteran pilot closed his fallen comrade's locker for the final time and picked up the box. Moving out into the hall, he paused. "James old friend," he murmured, swallowing a lump in his throat, "I promise I'll look after Fox as long as I'm living. You can count on it." He took a breath and closed the door softly behind him.

---

"You can run Bill, but you can't hide!" Fox grinned as he shoved the control stick hard right, his fighter banking sharply to stay on his opponent's six. With their last exams behind them, he and Bill Grey had been unable to resist taking their craft for a final run through the training area outside Corneria City. Ever since they had met on the playground way back in kindergarten, he and Bill had stuck together through thick and thin, good times and bad. Along with Falco, the avian and former jetbike gang member, they were the very best of friends. For the next few minutes however, they were rivals.

The vulpine gritted his teeth, feeling his g-suit adjusting with a sharp hiss as inertia pressed him firmly against his seat. While greatly lessening the stress on his body, it couldn't compensate entirely. Squeezing the red trigger button, a short burst from his twin, cowl-mounted cannons narrowly missed his opponent's left wing.

"You haven't won yet Fox," Bill replied, weaving back and forth to avoid the holographic laser bolts. His fighter pitched upward abruptly into a nearly vertical climb, its plasma engine exhaust glowing brightly as it corkscrewed away from its pursuer. Fox followed right behind, grunting as he fought off the threatening darkness closing in on his peripheral vision. "Don't black out," he told himself. If Bill could take it, so could he! An alarm klaxon sounded sharply as he pushed the envelope of the craft's design—and his own endurance. Another short burst issued from his cannons, practically scraping simulated paint off his comrade's hull. Vision narrowing to a tunnel in front of him, he saw Bill pull back into level flight to avoid a stall. Deprived of speed for a split second, he was vulnerable.

"Gotcha," Fox said as his HUD crosshairs turned red. "What the—"

"You snooze, you lose pal," came Falco's voice as a simulated smart bomb slammed into Fox's rear shield.

"Craft destroyed," announced the monotonous computer voice. "Simulation terminated."

"Hey, no fair," Fox protested. "This was one-on-one!"

"You know I never miss a party—or a good brawl," Falco replied.

"How about a free-for-all Fox," asked Bill, forming up on Fox's wing. "That should really make things interesting."

"I'm up for it," Fox nodded. "You in Falco?"

"I guess," Falco muttered, bringing up the rear. "But I want a team match before we're done."

"They're only three of us hotshot," Fox reminded him with a smirk.

"I _know_ that Einstein! Maybe together you two might actually have a chance of bagging me," Falco said, his voice filled with bravado.

Before either of the others could respond, they were interrupted by another voice on their comm.channel. "Base 1 to Green Flight. Come in Green Flight."

"This is Green Flight," Fox replied. "Does everyone want a piece of me today?"

"Warrant Officer McCloud, you are instructed to return to base immediately. Report to your CO as soon as you land. Base One out."

Fox's grin faded to a look of puzzlement. "I wonder what this is all about?" Surely he wasn't in trouble—at least he didn't _think_ he was in trouble. He had received clearance for this flight nearly an hour before, and it couldn't have been anything related to his exams, which he had passed with flying colors. "Hey Falco," he said, patching in his comrades on a different frequency from the control tower. "They couldn't have noticed that we were the ones who snuck out that bottle of Zonessian Brandy from the officers' mess right?"

"Not a chance," Falco assured him. "I covered our tracks so well that Andross himself couldn't have traced it!"

"I passed it to a good friend of mine in the city," Bill added. "It'll be safe with him until grad night."

Then what was it? For the moment, Fox was stumped. Oh well, it was probably nothing serious. After all, what could possibly go wrong now? "Guess I'd better see what they want. I'll meet you back at the base," he said as he broke formation and peeled away from the others.

"Looks like it's just you and me Billy Boy," Falco challenged. "Think you can handle another round?"

Bill mock saluted, his fingers moving to rest over his trigger button, "I was born ready!"

---

Donning his khaki duty uniform, Fox slammed his locker shut and headed down the hall to the nearest communications terminal. Perhaps the important message was from his father? McCloud Sr. had been on a routine reconnaissance mission to Venom, and had not called in nearly three weeks. "He probably didn't want to bother me until after my final evaluation," Fox thought to himself. Now he would have some very good news to report.

Reaching the wall panel's alcove, the cadet placed his thumb squarely on the touch pad. "Voice print authorization required," a dispassionate, male computer voice informed him.

"McCloud, Fox, Serial Number 118500D-Theta," Fox responded to the audio sensors.

"Analysis complete. Recognize Chief Warrant Officer Fox McCloud. You have one recorded message pending."

"From Peppy!" Fox smiled. "This should be good!" He took a step back, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall of the small booth. "Begin playback." After a few moments, the hare's familiar image greeted him on the flat screen.

"Hi Fox. I want to congratulate you for an outstanding four years at the academy, and on your new commission with the Cornerian Space Defense Force."

"Heh, thanks Old Timer," Fox grinned, though upon a closer inspection he sensed that something was wrong—terribly wrong. Peppy looked as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"I can't tell you how proud we--" the hare paused abruptly as if catching himself, "How proud I am of you." He heaved a sigh, dropping his gaze uncomfortably for a moment. "Fox, there's something I need to talk to you about right away. Come to my apartment as soon as you can. Once again, congratulations."

"End transmission," stated the computer voice as the monitor switched off.

Fox was no longer smiling as he stared at the blank screen where Peppy's image had been just a few seconds before. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he murmured, glancing to his watch. Well, now was as good a time as any.

---

The chime's low tone elicited no response from within. Fox tried again, pressing the small panel with one finger. Again, there was no answer. Surely Peppy had to be home around this time. Raising a fist, he rapped his knuckles firmly against the metallic surface.

"Err? What? Hold on a second," came Peppy's voice from within. A few moments later, the hare appeared in the doorway looking slightly embarrassed. "Sorry Fox, I guess I got a little distracted," he said, smiling sheepishly.

"It's no problem," Fox replied. "You know how I love staring at the walls and the floor."

"Very funny," chuckled Peppy. "Try spending a couple of weeks in a military hospital for a change. You won't have much else to see!" He turned and led the way into the small, meticulously tidy living room. Sparsely furnished, a gray sofa sat in one corner, only sharing the expanse of the worn, cream-colored carpet with a square table and four chairs. A flat-panel display occupied one wall, while the others were adorned with various pictures of all sizes and colors—some recent, and others quite old.

"Can I get you anything," Peppy offered.

Fox shook his head, "Thanks, but I'm not thirsty."

"Are you sure? I've just made a pot of coffee."

"Well, maybe I'll have some then." There it was again, the same burdened look that he'd noticed in the recorded message. It wasn't blatantly obvious, but everything Peppy did seemed to take on a slightly artificial tone—as if he was trying desperately to conceal something that deeply troubled him. Fox was certain this time. It wasn't just his imagination. Before he could say anything however, his friend disappeared into the kitchen.

Alone for a few moments, Fox meandered about the room, his gaze wandering across the various photographs on the nearby wall. Poor Peppy—it was too bad that he'd never been able to start a family of his own. Most of the frames contained pictures of others—friends, neighbors, and comrades from the defense forces. Hmm, what was this one? His eyes settled on a larger frame and a team of cubs in red and white baseball uniforms. Ah, this one certainly brought back memories! It had been taken on a warm summer afternoon, and each of the spirited, young faces seemed to fairly radiate an eagerness to give it his all. The cadet couldn't help but grin as he spied a very familiar fox kit, down on one knee in the front row with a black streak of grease under each eye. Strange—it seemed as though a lifetime had passed since then, but at the same time, he felt as if it had been only yesterday when he had played with the Firebirds.

"You had just celebrated your eleventh birthday," Peppy beamed as he appeared over Fox's shoulder, a mug of coffee in each hand. "You were quite a center fielder. I can't recall anything getting past your glove."

Fox smirked, "Hey, my batting average wasn't too shabby either."

"No it wasn't," Peppy agreed, plopping down on one side of the small table and passing the other mug to his companion. "Ah, what I wouldn't give to be a kid again sometimes."

Fox sat down across the table, the aroma filling his nostrils as he drank a swallow of the warm, brown liquid. "Well, I dunno…sure, there are some things I miss about being a kid, but I don't think I want to go through it all again to get here—not after graduating from the academy." His dreams of being a fighter pilot were all coming true, and it wouldn't be long before he'd be soaring among the stars and visiting other worlds. In all respects, the present couldn't get any better.

"You just wait until you're old and gray like me," the hare remarked sagely, though his eyes twinkled slightly in amusement. "We'll see how much you'll miss it then!"

"Aw, c'mon!" Fox laughed, "You're not really THAT old Pep! Dad's only a couple of months younger, and he hasn't lost his edge." He took another sip of his coffee, "Speaking of which, where is he?"

Peppy's smile vanished, and he lowered his gaze, staring at the mug in front of him without seeing it. The air in the room seemed heavier all of a sudden. Fox's brows knitted with concern as he studied the far-off look in his friend's eyes. "Peppy, what's on your mind," he asked after a long moment. "It's not like you to be distracted like this."

"Hmm? Oh, I'm sorry—I guess I'm just a little tired…"

"No," Fox frowned slightly, "I think I know you a little better than that. What's bothering you?" Peppy shifted uncomfortably under the young pilot's gaze, continuing to hesitate. "Just spit it out," the vulpine urged, "Whatever it is, don't keep it to yourself." He paused as realization dawned on him. It made sense now—the hare's two week seclusion, half-hearted congratulatory message, the summons to his apartment, his sluggish reaction to the door chime, and his disturbed silence now. Peppy was the bearer of very bad news and was desperately seeking the right way to break it to him. "Peppy, look at me," he said in a gentle, but firm tone, "I'm twenty-two years old. I appreciate you trying to let me down easy, but I'm not a kid anymore." Bracing himself for the worst, he nodded once as their eyes met, "Give it to me straight—I can take it."

Peppy heaved a sigh and rose from his chair, disappearing into the bedroom. A few moments later, he reappeared carrying a small box in his hands. He sat down again, placing it in front of the cadet with a resigned expression.

Fox stared at the large, black letters on the lid. He looked to Peppy uncertainly for a moment before reading the words once again. A name…his father's name, one he was usually so pleased to see. Then why was he suddenly uneasy? A sick, awful thought began to form in the back of his mind, but he dismissed it so quickly that he was almost unaware of it. Of course his father was all right. He was probably just very busy—but if that was the case, why was this box sitting in front of him now? Shouldn't it have been delivered to its rightful owner? The terrible thought continued to grow, but once again he forced it away sharply. Maybe the box was from his father—a graduation present perhaps? No, it wouldn't come in a worn container like this, and Peppy wouldn't be the one giving it to him. The thought loomed over him like a rising thunderhead as he placed his hands on the sides of the box. "Go away," his mind snapped. He was being silly—what a ridiculous thing to imagine. It was impossible! He lifted the lid and looked inside. Pictures, desk items, and a few souvenirs were here and there—all a reflection of James McCloud and the life he lived, but Fox didn't see any of it. His eyes were fixed on three items at the top of the pile—a pair of broken shades, a flight pin with golden wings, and a set of charred dog tags. He raised his eyes to look at Peppy, unable to ask the obvious question. It wasn't necessary—his friend's expression said it all. As the horrible truth began to sink in, the light seemed to utterly drain from the room until he could see nothing—nothing but the three cold, unmoving objects in the box before him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

The silence was deafening.  For what seemed like an eternity, Fox stared at the container before him as if he had been turned to stone.  Dead?  How could his father be dead?!  No, this was all a bad dream—it had to be!  Any moment now, the morning call would come over the intercom at the barracks, he'd wake up in his bunk, and this insane nightmare would be washed away from his thoughts, drowned out by the blaring, patriotic marches.  He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, willing himself with all his strength to awaken, but when he opened them again, the box was still before him, and he was still seated at the table across from Peppy.  It wasn't a dream.

"How?"  He managed at last, feeling numb all over.

"It was a textbook recon mission," Peppy said quietly.  "With all the increased activity on Venom during the last six months, General Pepper thought Andross was up to something—something big.  Rather than depending on the usual patrol ships or the Early Warning Satellite System near Macbeth, he decided to send in Star Fox for a closer look."  He pushed his half-empty mug away, his gaze distant once again. "We evaded the enemy combat space patrols easily enough, and we used the moon's gravity to mask our engine signatures.  James managed to get some good high-level scans of the surface before we were shot down."

Shot down?  Fox's eyes widened in disbelief.  "But—Star Fox is the best of the best," he stammered, "You guys are untouchable!  Even if you were ambushed by a whole squadron, I don't see how you couldn't have made a run for it and—"

"We were betrayed."

"What?!"

Peppy nodded, "You heard me."  His nose twitched in agitation, "Before we knew what hit us, Pigma had blasted our wings off from behind.  Disabling our ships was simple work for the hordes of Venomian fighters that swarmed in afterward.  They knew _exactly_ where to find us."  The veteran pilot slammed his fist on the table in anguish, "For fifty million sanpon and a command position, that pig defected to Andross and sold us out!"

A defection in the Cornerian military?  The very idea seemed absurd!  How could Dengar have thrown away his entire career and turned his back on the billions of Lylatian citizens he had sworn to protect?  Even more incomprehensible to Fox was that Pigma could hand over Peppy and his father to the likes of Andross after serving with them for so many years.  They had saved his life a dozen times over!  The vulpine waited as his friend, with great effort, regained his composure.

"We ejected at about 12,000 feet, for all the good it did us, and fell into a squad of troopers.   They clubbed us senseless, and the next thing I knew, we were waking up in a prison cell," Peppy continued.  "Andross was particularly interested in your father.  He didn't want information—just James groveling at his feet, but your dad wouldn't have it if hell froze over."  The veteran pilot dropped his eyes, "They beat him, they tortured him, but he gave them no satisfaction.  He was defiant to the end."  Peppy swallowed hard, "After he died, I overheard the guards talking about shooting me the next day, so I pretended to hang myself.  When one of them came in to check on me, I managed to disarm him, grabbed his blaster, and escaped.  It was a running fire fight all the way to the hangar, but I stole a craft and somehow made it back in one piece."  He looked up slowly, "I can't tell you how sorry I am."

Fox's jaw worked, his neck muscles so tense that he could hardly breathe.  His eyes stung as he rose to his feet and turned away.  If only this day had never come.  Why couldn't he have just gone to bed the previous night and never awoken to see the dawn?  All he wanted now was to sink into the ground and disappear.

Peppy closed his eyes, once again at a loss for words.  There was very little he could say at this point that would provide much comfort.  The forgotten coffee mugs sat half empty on the table.  Their contents grew cold, and still the heavy silence hung over the room.  Finally the hare spoke, "You're welcome to stay for the night if you'd like.  I know the barracks can get a little oppressive."

Fox shook his head quietly, a rough edge in his voice.  "Thanks Peppy, but I think I'd better get moving."

"If you need anything—"

"It's okay Old Timer," Fox murmured.  "I'm all right."  Wordlessly he tucked the cardboard box under one arm and turned his steps toward the door.

***

The house had never seemed so still and empty.  Locking the door behind him, Fox headed straight for his old room, ignoring the depressions his boots made in the carpet.  More out of habit than necessity, he pressed the light switch as he tossed his bag roughly onto the bed.  After all these years, he could have navigated the place blindfolded without so much as stubbing a toe.  Just as the vulpine was about to flop face first next to his belongings, a scrap of yellow paper on the desk near the window caught his eye.  He tramped over and dumped himself into the chair, setting his jaw when he recognized James's handwriting.

_Junior,_

_If you're reading this, I guess you're taking a little break from studying.  If you've brought your buddies with you, tell Falco not to break anything this time.  I'll be pulling a few long patrols, but I promise I'll be back in time for graduation.  I wouldn't miss it for anything!   I know you'll do fine on the last proficiency exams.  Just relax, do your best, and don't overheat your engine on the course.  Go get 'em Fox!  Make me proud!_

_Dad_

_P.S.  Got a little surprise for you under my bed, but I'll skin you alive if you open it now!  Wait until I get back, and we'll open it together okay?  Take care Son._

But James McCloud was never coming back.  The words on the paper began to blur as Fox's eyes filled with tears.  He let them come.  Crumpling the note in one clenched fist, he put his head down on the table and did something he practically never did.  He cried.  Away from the eyes and ears of the world, he wept bitterly until he was exhausted, finally slipping away into a fitful slumber filled with nightmares.

***

"Where's Fox," asked Falco as he stuck his head through the doorway.

 "I haven't seen him," Bill replied, glancing to the empty bunk below him.  "He hasn't been back since the day after finals."

"Geez," the avian exclaimed.  "He's missing all the fun!  We actually have some free time for once, and he just disappears?"

"It sure looks that way."  Bill put down his magazine and hopped down to the floor.  "You wouldn't happen to know where he went would you?"

"Would I be asking if I knew?"

Bill frowned, "I'm starting to get worried.  It's not like Fox to just take off without dropping one of us a line first."

"Relax," Falco assured him.  "Everyone says 'no news is good news' right?"

The canine shook his head.  "I don't know.  Four days ago he said he'd see us back at the airfield remember?  He wasn't there when we landed.  Then I overheard some guys in the hall say that he got some important call from the communications center.  Later I talked to one of the MPs, and he definitely left the grounds that afternoon.  Sure, it didn't bother at first, but—"

"Man, you're overanalyzing things."  Falco stretched, popping a few joints as he leaned back against the wall.  "He'll turn up before long."

Bill raised a brow, "Falco, graduation is tomorrow—1500 hours.  Don't you think that's cutting it kinda close?"

"I'm sure he's fine," replied Falco.  "If something was wrong, he'd have let us know right?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Bill muttered, but he wasn't entirely convinced, nor did he feel any better when Fox failed to show up for the morning and afternoon practices on the review field.  That couldn't be right!  As soon as he could get away, grab a quick shower, and obtain a day pass, he was headed for the hover bus station.  He had to get some answers.

***

"EYAAH!"  Fox yelled as he slammed his fist into the punching bag.  Clad in a pair of blue shorts and a white tank top, the vulpine vented his frustration and anguish on the deadweight hanging from the garage ceiling.  It hadn't helped.  After many hours his knuckles were battered and bleeding, but he didn't care.  He would just tape them up yet again before resuming his assault.  

"YAAAAH!"

"Easy there Tiger," came a familiar voice from behind him.  Fox turned around to see his best friend and comrade standing a few feet away with a first aid kit in one hand.

"Bill?"  He managed a faint smile.  "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough."

Fox nodded, trudging over to a couple of metal crates and taking a seat.  He looked like hell, drenched in sweat and his unkempt fur flying in all directions.  He had slept little and eaten less over the last several days.  It was a small miracle he had the energy to do anything at all.

Bill sat down next to Fox and began to remove the stained bandages from the vulpine's fists.  "Damn," he exclaimed.  "You keep this up, and you'll have something broken before too long."  He reached into the aluminum box and fished out a surface tissue regenerator.

"Tell me something I don't know," Fox muttered, watching the small magenta beam pass over his fingers.  Something was already broken deep inside him—a wound that he doubted would ever heal completely.

"I'm really sorry about your dad."

"Thanks."

"He was proud of you Fox, and he still is."  The canine finished wrapping the injured knuckles with a new layer of tape.  "I know it hurts," he said, placing an arm across his comrade's shoulders, "But you have to be strong now.  You might not see him, but in spirit he—"

"Save it," Fox cut him off firmly.  He knew his friend meant well, but his emotional agony would not be soothed so easily.  After sitting in silence for several minutes, he tested his hands, opening and closing them a few times.  They felt better.  Satisfied, he rose to his feet and headed back toward the punching bag.

"Whoa, hang on a second!"  Bill called after him, "Do you _want_ to visit the infirmary?"

"HYAAH!"

"I guess you do," the gray dog said under his breath.  He sighed and stood, making his way over to Fox.  "We missed you at practice today buddy."

"AUGH!"

"It was kinda hot this afternoon, but nothing compared to the survival course last summer," the canine remarked.

"YAAAH!"

"You do remember the rules don't you?  If you don't practice at least once, you don't march."

"HEEYAH!"

"There's only one more rehearsal tomorrow morning."

"UNNGH!"

Bill arched a brow worriedly.  "Fox?  Fox!  HEY, are you listening to me?!"

"HAAAH—"

With a solid thump, Bill caught and deflected the vulpine's arm away from its target.  He leveled a hard gaze at the other cadet, staring into his friend's jade-green eyes with his icy blue ones.

Fox exhaled sharply, "I heard you."  He swung at the bag with his left, but the punch was blocked once again.

"Stop ignoring me," Bill frowned.

"It doesn't matter."

"What?!"

Fox abruptly dropped his hackles and turned away, seeming to deflate a few sizes.  "None of it matters."  At least it didn't matter _anymore_.  He had been only three years old when his mother died, and now his father, who meant more to him that he could possibly describe in words, had been taken from him as well.  How could he continue alone?  Graduation from the academy should have been the happiest day of his life, but if the elder McCloud couldn't share the moment of triumph, it was meaningless.

"What do you mean, 'none of it matters,' Bill said incredulously.  "We're talking about your dream here!  It's what you've always wanted."

"Yeah, well maybe I don't want it anymore."

"Are you sure you didn't hit your _head_ on that punching bag?"

Fox turned around, staring his friend straight in the eye.  "Let me make this very simple okay?  Two words:  I quit."

Bill gaped, hardly believing his ears, "You can't just throw it all away!"

"Watch me."

The vulpine started for the back door, but his comrade dashed in front of him, blocking the way.  "Fox, don't do this!  Yeah, it's natural to feel like it's the end of the world right now.  Believe me, I'd feel the same way if I lost my parents, but would your dad have wanted you to just stop living?"

Fox didn't answer.

"Of course not!  He would have wanted you to carry on—live for him.  There's nothing that he'd want more than to have you follow in his footsteps and walk across that stage tomorrow!"

The vulpine sighed, "Can I ask you something?"

"Name it!"

"Have you lost your parents?"

Bill was caught off guard by the question.  He suddenly found himself on the defensive, "Well…no, but—"

"Then I would appreciate it if you wouldn't tell me how I should feel, what I should do, or what my father would have wanted," Fox said evenly.  "If you really want to do something for me, just leave me alone."  With that, he pushed past the other cadet and closed the door behind him, leaving an exasperated Bill staring at his feet in silence.

***

Night was falling when Fox ventured out of the house once more.  The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but the western skies were still glowing faintly with a pale shade of midnight blue to hint of its passing.  As the air gradually cleared, the stars came out one-by-one until the great dome above him was filled with tiny points of light, innumerable as the grains of sand of the seashore.  The vulpine recalled how, when he was younger, he used to lie on his back in the grass on summer nights, much like this one, and admire nature's awesome beauty.  He would gaze at those tiny points of light, naming all the ones he knew and making up names for those he didn't until the singing of the crickets lulled him to sleep.  The dream would always be the same—of soaring through that endless sea of stars from one side of the galaxy to the other.  Deep inside, part of him wanted to listen to Bill, but his thoughts would inevitably return to James's tragic death, and the stabbing pain of insufferable grief would drown out everything else.

"Yo', Fox?!"

"Not again," the cadet grumbled to himself.

"C'mon Fox!  I know you're here somewhere," called the voice behind him.

"Go away," he responded without turning around.

"Like hell I will," said Falco as he made his way into the backyard.  "How are you holding up," he asked, his voice growing quieter momentarily.

"I've had better days," Fox replied.  Boy, what an understatement.

The avian nodded with a slight grimace, "I hear ya.  Bill told me about what happened to your old man.  Sorry to hear it."

The vulpine nodded.

"Tough break huh?"

"You're telling me."  Fox sighed, "Look, I've had this conversation already."

"Well, apparently you weren't listening the first time," his friend remarked.  "Bill's right, and we all know it!"

Fox frowned.  "If you're here to give me another pep talk, don't bother," he said irritably.

"I'm not here to give you a pep talk," Falco said.  "You look like you could use something else—"  Without warning, his fist swung in a powerful arc and caught the other cadet squarely in the jaw, knocking him to the ground.

"Argh!  Hey, what the hell was that for?!" Fox demanded with a snarl.

"Your wakeup call," Falco replied nonchalantly.  He extended his right hand to help his comrade up as if nothing had happened.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean," Fox snapped, grudgingly accepting the assist.  His vision exploded in another bright flash as Falco's left hook sent him sprawling once again.

"You've been wallowing in self-pity long enough.  It's time to suck it up, and move on!"

Fox growled angrily and rose to his feet, clenching his fists.  "You're asking for it feather brain!"

"Pfft, I'm just translating what I'm saying into a form you can understand," Falco scoffed.  "But you've been so blockheaded today that I don't think you can understand _anything_!"

"WHY YOU—" Fox exploded.  He sailed into Falco with an uppercut, and a fight promptly erupted.

"Damn it," Falco shouted as he swung and missed.  "You're graduating tomorrow if I have to bash in your skull and drag you across that field myself!!"

"I'd like to see you try it!!" Fox yelled back, slugging his opponent in the gut, and sending him reeling backward with a roundhouse elbow.  "I don't take orders from you!!"

The avian charged, tackling the vulpine to the ground.  The two rolled over and over in the grass, Falco managing to pin the other cadet beneath him.

"Why don't you keep your big beak out of my business," Fox hissed, struggling to free himself.

"I'm trying to do you a favor, _genius_," Falco shot back.  In the process he lost his grip, and Fox managed to heave the other cadet off as he rolled back to his feet.

"YOU STUBBORN FOOL!"

"LOOK WHO'S TALKING!"

The combatants flew at each other again, but as the brawl dragged on, neither seemed to be gaining the upper hand.  They were too evenly matched.  Pummeling each other until they were exhausted, they finally collapsed on their backs next to each other, worn out and very sore.

"Fox," Falco gasped.  "Do you remember the first time we met each other?"

"Yeah," panted Fox.  "You wrecked your hover bike pulling one of your crazy stunts, and I helped you carry it back to that empty lot you used to call home."

Falco glanced over at his comrade.  "That's right, and if you'd asked anybody back then if Falco Lombardi would ever amount to anything, they'd have thrown you in the loony bin."  The avian placed his hands behind his head and stared up at the sky.  "My old man abandoned us when I was ten.  I worked my ass off after school for a while to keep the four of us alive, but my mother just drank half of it anyway.  Finally I decided that it would be a whole lot easier if I just worried about one person—me.  So, I ran away from home.  I joined a gang, lived on the streets, and basically did whatever the hell I wanted.  I _wasn't _what you'd call winning material!  People like me either wind up dead, in the slammer for twenty, or if we're lucky, live in the gutter for the rest of our short, miserable lives."  He turned and gave his companion a hard look, "But you know what?  Someone _did_ believe in me the day I almost broke my neck on that bike.  I told him I did stupid stuff like that because I wanted to fly—high and fast.  For a loser like me, that was about as good as it got, but this guy thought I was better than that, and he decided he was gonna help me chase my dream.  His name was Fox McCloud."

Fox didn't answer.

Falco continued, unfazed by the silence.  "I cleaned up my act, and because of you I managed to make the cut and get into the academy.  I started a whole semester behind, but somehow I caught up by the end of the second year."  Wincing, he sat up clutching his stomach with one hand.  "I'd never worked so hard in my entire life, and I thought about dropping out more than once, but you wouldn't let me quit.  You wouldn't let me give up my dream.  Tomorrow I'm an ensign in the CSDF—not some piece of trash in a back alley."

Rising to his feet again, the avian pinned the vulpine with his fierce gaze.  "Fox, you'd better be listening, because this isn't easy for me to say to anybody.  I _owe you_ big time; I couldn't have earned these wings if it hadn't been for you.  Now what kind of a friend would I be if I let you turn your back on _your_ dream after all we've been through together?  I will be damned if I let _you_ quit now!"

Fox cleared his throat as he stood up with some difficulty.  "Hey, things are already tough right now.  Don't make it any worse."

"I'm not leaving without you buster!"

The vulpine sighed in frustration.  "Falco, I appreciate what you're trying to do—honest!  You and Bill are the best friends I could have right now, but this is something I need to sort out on my own."  He looked away, returning his eyes to the heavens.  For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

At last Falco muttered, "You once told me that I needed to let go of my past since there was nothing I could do to change it.  What's done is done."  The avian began to head back the way he came.  "If you won't listen to me, then take some of your own advice," he called over his shoulder before disappearing into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Fox exhaled softly as the sound of his friend's footsteps on the pavement grew fainter and fainter—finally dying away altogether. The yard was quiet once again, but the cadet's mind was anything but tranquil.

"What's done is done," echoed Falco's voice in his thoughts.

"We're talking about your dream here! It's what you've always wanted!" Bill's earnest appeals came flooding back.

"James managed to get some good high-level scans of the surface before we were shot down." Peppy's words added themselves to the chaos. "I can't tell you how sorry I am."

The vulpine frowned, beginning to pace back and forth. He did remember giving Falco a similar earful about not dwelling in the past, but that was long before this disaster had ever occurred. It had shattered his morale, and he felt as if part of him had died along with James in that dark Venomian prison cell. Sometimes it was much easier to give advice than to follow it.

"Fox, don't do this!"

"They beat him. They tortured him."

"You can't just throw it all away!"

"I needed to let go…there was nothing I could do to change it."

Yes, he needed to let go. He knew it, but where would he find the strength? _How_ would he find it? His father had always been the first to support him whenever disaster struck, but this time it would not be so. The elder McCloud could offer no comfort regarding his own death. Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of irony.

Fox bowed his head as a gentle breeze ruffled his dusty, matted fur. Huh? His eyes fell on the battered strips of tape still clinging to his knuckles, and his thoughts drifted back to his friends once more. Bill and Falco had been there for him when he needed them the most. They had not abandoned him, despite his repeated attempts to push them away all afternoon. The more he thought about it, the more he began to realize how much they all meant to each other. They were more than just friends; they were family. Together they would get through this crisis, and the younger McCloud would eventually come to terms with his loss. Perhaps he would not face it alone after all.

"You've been wallowing in self-pity too long!"

"Would your dad have wanted you to stop living?"

"No," he said aloud. Of course his father wouldn't have wanted him to give up. He had never been a quitter, and now would be a terrible moment to start.

"I know it hurts, but you have to be strong now."

"It's time to suck it up and move on!"

"There's nothing he'd want more than to have you follow in his footsteps and walk across that stage tomorrow."

Fox nodded. They were both right, and they had been right all along. It was he who had been wrong to even consider turning his back on the future. He had worked so hard and accomplished too much. In his heart, he knew he would never find true happiness with any career unless it was at the controls of a star fighter. The world had not ended. Living without his father would be a heavy burden to bear, but he would survive. It would just take a little time.

"Thanks guys," he said, feeling more like himself than he had in several days. "I owe you one."

---

"Well, how do I look," Bill asked as he turned away from the mirror. The typically easygoing canine seemed slightly nervous about his appearance, which was unusual since he had seldom received demerits on account of sloppy attire.

Fox mused, scratching his chin. "I think you missed a spot," the cadet responded after a brief inspection.

"Uh-oh. Where?"

The vulpine rose from the edge of his bunk and ambled over to Bill. "Just this button," he pointed. As the gray dog glanced downward, he was greeted with a sharp thump in the jaw. Fox smirked and shook his head, "Relax Bill. You look sharp. If you mess with that uniform anymore, you'll wear it out!"

"Yeah, but today's the big day," his roommate insisted. "Everything's gotta be perfect! We'll only graduate once you know."

"I know," replied Fox. "Now move over Narcissus, and let me have a turn."

"All right, all right, it's all yours," Bill grinned. He took a few steps back and leaned against the bunks.

Fox studied himself in the rectangular mirror and was mostly satisfied with what he saw. Not a single strand of fur was out of place, nor did his blue dress uniform display the slightest wrinkle. The row of brass buttons down its front and the wings on his chest had been meticulously polished until they gleamed like burning coals whenever they caught the light. Even his shoes had been shined to the point of being reflective. After a few moments of contemplation, the vulpine straightened his collar ever so slightly and nodded. "Not bad! Not bad at all!"

"Heh, that's more than we can say for some people," Bill laughed, glancing over his shoulder into the hall. Right on cue a muffled thump was heard in one of the adjacent rooms, followed by a few choice words and a crash. Seconds later Falco dashed into view, half dressed and very agitated.

"Hey guys, what time is it!"

Fox glanced at his watch. "1347. You've got less than fifteen minutes buddy."

"_Shit!_" The avian cursed. He whirled around and sprinted for the bathroom.

"Hurry up, or you'll be left behind," Bill called after him.

"_Shut up!_"

"Falco, Falco, Falco," Fox chuckled. "You're so close. Just try not to trip over the finish line!"

"Of all the times to be late," Bill agreed. He reached for his cap and sat down on the end of the lower bunk, looking it over for any imperfections.

Having a few minutes to kill, Fox walked slowly over to the window and raised the shade. Waldron Hall's fourth floor had a decent view of the central academy grounds, and for a little while he allowed his eyes to wander over the familiar turf. With most underclassmen dismissed for summer leave, the wide, gray, concrete walkways, usually filled with cadets moving from place to place, were almost completely deserted. A few visitors could be seen near the fountain in front of the main office, a large, brick building erected centuries earlier by the nation state of Beinichia. At the time, the site had been the home of an air force academy that trained pilots to fly archaic, piston engine craft. Beyond the classroom buildings to the east, the enormous, white dome of the holographic simulator and the athletic complex, with its many rows of glass panels reflecting the intense glare of the midday sun, were visible, and on the edge of campus the vulpine could just make out the main hangar and runway. Yes, the defense academy had truly become his second home. He knew it like the back of his hand. However, this would be the final day he spent here as a flight cadet. An important chapter in his life was coming to an end, and a new one, both greater and more uncertain than the last, was about to be written.

"You're awfully quiet," Bill commented as he fiddled with the cap in his hands. "Is something on your mind?"

"Maybe." Fox trudged across the floor and took a seat next to his childhood friend. "I was just thinking about the last four years—everything we've been through. I'd say it's been one hell of a ride."

"It sure has," his comrade nodded. "Still, it's hard to believe that it's really over."

"Yeah." The vulpine's brown creased slightly. "One moment it seems like I've been here forever, but when I stop and think about it for a while, I feel like I just got here at the same time." A corner of his mouth quirked upward into a half-smile. "Strange huh?"

Bill shook his head. "It's not that strange. I happen to feel the same way, though I can't explain it myself. I guess it's what makes us different from machines."

Fox nodded in agreement. "Not to mention machines don't form friendships." If there was one thing he regretted about graduation, it was having to part ways with his comrades, particularly the one who had been with him from the very beginning. The Lylat System was a big place, and the chances of the two cadets being assigned to the same squadron were practically nonexistent. Like most pilots, they would probably go their separate ways when they received their commissions. "I'm sure gonna miss you Bill," he said after a moment. "You're like the brother I never had. Things just won't be the same without you around."

"Yeah, I know," the gray dog replied. "I'm gonna miss you too Fox. I couldn't ask for a better friend in the whole world." He smiled. "We made a good team didn't we?"

"We _make_ a good team," Fox corrected him. He felt sure they always would—regardless of the challenge. "Listen, um…" he cleared his throat, shifting his gaze uncomfortably. "About yesterday afternoon…I wanted to say I'm sorry for acting like a moron. I wasn't myself at all."

"No kidding," Bill scoffed with a frown. "I've had better luck reasoning with a brick wall."

"Hey!"

The canine laughed, "I'm just messing with you. Don't worry; I understand completely. In the end you made the right decision, and that's all that matters."

Fox nodded. After a moment of contemplation he glanced down at his watch, noting that it was almost time to leave. "Well, are you ready to do this," he asked as he rose to his feet and placed his cap squarely on his head.

"You bet," Bill replied, following suit. "Let's just hope Falco gets his act together in time."

"He will," the vulpine chuckled. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's to never underestimate him."

---

The strong rays of the hot, afternoon sun shone brilliantly down upon the field of freshly mowed grass. Absent of the usual athletics teams, a small stage now stood in its center beneath a green tent, facing many rows of empty seats. The stands were packed—filled to capacity with thousands of parents, relatives, and friends, all waiting expectantly as groups of students began lining up at the entrance to the stadium.

"Whew, couldn't they have waited until evening," Peppy gasped as he removed his cap and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Determined to secure a good spot, he had arrived nearly two hours early, but it had been worth the wait. From this vantage point, he would have an excellent view of the entire ceremony from start to finish. "At least I'm in the shade. I know they must be feeling it down there." The hare cast a sympathetic glance at the young pilots and the military band, braving the heat at attention with instruments ready.

Finally, a group of instructors and dignitaries appeared on the field, taking refuge beneath the tent's broad roof. It would not be long now. At precisely 1500 hours, the band began to play, and the color guard advanced onto the track followed by rank after rank of marching cadets, all moving in perfect cohesion. As the mass of blue uniforms drew closer, Peppy soon spotted Fox among the honor graduates at the head of the column. "Ah, there he is," the hare nodded with a smile. Pulling a flat photo wafer from his pocket, the veteran pilot took a quick snapshot for his massive collection of pictures. "So much like his father."

Left! Left! Left, right, left! Fox hardly heard the cadence echoing in his mind anymore. By this time he was so accustomed to the rhythm of marching feet on pavement that it came almost as naturally as breathing. He doubted his body would ever unlearn the drill—even if he lived to be a hundred and twenty. Eyes facing forward, the disciplined students moved as one individual, parading once around the field before separating and filing orderly to their seats.

Following the Lylatian anthem, Commandant George Withrow, the first in a group of several speakers, took his place at the podium. The canine surveyed the assembly of young pilots before him for a long moment, his gaze quiet and yet penetrating at the same time.

Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of the faculty, staff, and students of the

Cornerian Defense Academy, it is my privilege to welcome you to this year's

commencement exercises. I know I need not tell you that your sons and

daughters have come a long way over the last four years. They are no longer the

same individuals who took those first uncertain steps off the shuttle and onto this

campus. This institution has changed them, molded them, and shaped who they

have become. They have been weighed, and they have been measured, but those you see before you today have _not_ been found wanting. The class of 2219 has been one of the best ever to walk these grounds, and I can assure you with the utmost confidence that you will not find a better group of young adults anywhere in this star system.

Fox sat as still as a statue, never taking his eyes from the speaker's face as he kept his expression carefully controlled and impassive. Inside however, he was more than a little surprised. Compliments from Commandant Withrow were almost as rare as a snowstorm in July, and they were never more than a "good work" or "that'll do."

"Cadets," Withrow addressed the student body. "Your time is almost here. In less than two hours you will finally become commissioned officers. I know many of you are itching for this ceremony to be over, and some of you are probably thinking, 'When is he going to shut up and get off that stage?'" He smiled dryly as faint murmurs of laughter rippled through the crowd. "But I want you all to slow down, relax, and take a look around. Take in every sight, every smell, every sound, and burn it into your memory. No detail is insignificant. Savor this moment for as long as you possibly can, for I tell you truthfully, it will never come again."

"You don't need to say it twice," thought Fox. The vulpine had spent most of his life in anticipation of this day, hour, and place, and he wouldn't have minded one bit if the program had been twice as long. He listened to every speech as intently as he had any mission briefing. He felt the warmth of the sun and the puffs of the summer breeze on his face. He drank in the smell of the grass. Yes, he was truly here—awake, alive, and aware of every sensation—including a growing number of butterflies in his stomach as the moment of truth drew closer and closer.

At last, Commandant Withrow rose from his seat and returned to the podium, flanked by two officers bearing a large, metallic box on an antigrav plate.

"Rise!"

The cadets obeyed in unison.

"Members of the Class of 2219, come forward and be recognized."

"Well, here it goes," Fox said to himself as he took a breath and headed for the stage.

"Fox McCloud," Withrow read solemnly. "Class leader, top one percent, graduate with distinction." The commandant took a coated scroll of paper and a gold medallion in a heavy, black case from his assistant. Turning away from the microphone, his voice indiscernible by the remainder of the assembly, he added, "And the best I have ever seen in my life. Good luck cadet."

"Thank you sir," the vulpine replied as he shook Withrow's hand firmly. Then the weight of the diploma and medal sank into his palm. It felt absolutely wonderful.

"Lupina Gasperini, graduate with distinction," the commandant continued. "William Grey, graduate with distinction…Tiger Torayama, graduate with distinction."

Returning to his place in the front row, it was all Fox could do to keep a straight face. Pride swelled in his chest as he clutched the precious document firmly in his grasp, hardly hearing the names of the others, or anything else for that matter. The feeling of euphoria washing over him was practically intoxicating.

"Dong Hyun Kim," the long roll of cadets went on. "Joseph LaGrange…Falco Lombardi…"

Falco? The name brought Fox back to earth again as he watched his comrade ascend the short flight of steps to receive his commission. The avian had not been left behind after all, despite nearly oversleeping the most important moment of his life. With a dignified handshake, he accepted the scroll from Commandant Withrow and resumed his place among the others, his expression largely inscrutable. "Who would have thought four years ago," the vulpine said to himself.

When the final names had been read, Withrow prepared to dismiss the graduating class for the last time.

Cadets, your studies at this institution are now complete. A new day is

dawning—the beginning of your careers in the Cornerian Space Defense Force.

For nearly three centuries, these facilities at Cape Henderson have trained tens of

thousands of skilled aviators. Today you continue the proud tradition as you join

their ranks. Your instructors and I wish you continued success in all your future

endeavors. Good luck, and good hunting!

As the canine finished speaking, the blue-uniformed pilots raised their voices in unison while the band played the Song of National Defense, the academy alma mater.

_Whether attacking or defending land and sea or sky and star,_

_Bear the fight courageously to enemies near and far._

_No matter what the challenge, Lylat's sword and shield we are,_

_Citizens despaireth not! We stand on guard for thee!_

Fox felt his spirit stirring within him as he sang enthusiastically with the rest. Many would have balked at the difficult and often dangerous task of flying a star fighter—even during peacetime, but not the young McCloud. Like all the pilots who had come before him throughout history, flying was a passion that had no equal in his mind, and with Venom's increasingly hostile policy toward the other planets of the system, he would gladly put his life on the line in defense of Corneria. Come flame or flood, this was his destiny, and he would have it no other way.

_Never faltering, never failing,_

_March on! March on! March on!_

_We shall hold our banner high,_

_And march on to victory!_

A tremor of excitement surged through the students as they bared their heads, singing all the louder.

_Never faltering, never failing,_

_March on! March on! March on!_

_We shall hold our banner high,_

_And MARCH ON TO VICTORY!_

And all at once it was over. With a resounding cheer that shook the stadium, the ecstatic graduates hurled their caps skyward in jubilation. The order and discipline that had held the assembly firmly in its grasp minutes earlier completely dissolved, replaced with pandemonium as the stands emptied their contents onto the grassy field and parents, students, teachers, and guests merged into one giant body.

"YEEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"

Fox swiveled an ear, glancing up from retrieving his hat. A grin spread rapidly across his muzzle as he saw Bill making his way through the crowd. "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA- HOOOOOOOOOH!" He whooped in return as the two shared a brotherly embrace. "We did it! We really did it!" He yelled as he clapped his best friend firmly on the back with his free hand.

"You bet we did!" The canine howled in delight. "Was there ever a doubt!"

"Of course not," Fox replied with a sudden air of dead seriousness. "We _never_ got into trouble…the idea!" A corner of his muzzle began to twitch as he made a futile effort to stifle a smirk. Giving up, they both burst out laughing as the vulpine recalled the many hours spent working off demerits—Bill, Falco, and himself—all three of them together on the practice grounds more often than not. "Okay, maybe just a little," he admitted at last, still chuckling.

"Understatement of the year! Right here people!" Falco declared as he joined them. "Don't worry ladies, he's not quite as bad as he looks."

"Pfft, you're one to talk," scoffed Fox. "You got into trouble; we just came along for the ride."

The avian shrugged. "Hey, it's all good! The important thing is we're done, and I for one intend to party! When do we ditch this Popsicle stand?"

"Whoa, take it easy," said Bill. "There'll be plenty of time to celebrate later. Right now we should just chill and mingle for awhile."

Falco rolled his eyes impatiently. "Whatever. Just don't make it too long okay?"

"Okay," the canine smirked. "We won't keep you from your hot date any longer than necessary."

Falco glared at Bill. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but a voice from behind the trio cut him off before he could respond.

"Hello stranger."

The gray dog recognized it immediately, his face brightening like a ray of sunlight as he turned to regard his parents and little brother.

"Mom! Dad! You made it!"

"Of course we did son," his father spoke again. "We wouldn't have missed it for the world."

"We're so proud of you," his mother added as she hugged her eldest pup, her face wreathed in smiles. "I can still hardly believe it."

"I can hardly believe it myself," said Bill, bending forward slightly while Mrs. Grey stood on tiptoe. "It's so good to see all of you."

"Does this mean you're gonna be flying a real star fighter now," piped a third voice.

Bill grinned, fuzzling his brother's head fur enthusiastically. "Yep, the real thing Dusty. Who knows, I might even give you a ride in it one of these days."

"Really? Awesome!"

Mr. Grey chuckled, shaking his head. "All right, let's not get ahead of ourselves. You have a very long way to go yet."

"Don't worry Dad," said Bill, placing his own cap atop his brother's crown where it promptly sank over the boy's ears. "He'll grow into it."

Fox smiled, crossing his arms as he studied Dusty's eager face. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing a childhood reflection of himself from nine, maybe ten years ago. The lights that danced behind the pup's eyes at the mention of flying were quite familiar indeed. Undoubtedly Bill recognized them too, and even Falco, whether he admitted it or not. Falco? The vulpine glanced to his left, suddenly realizing that his avian companion had slipped away into the crowd unnoticed. "What's with him," he mumbled under his breath. Ugh, stupid question. The answer came almost immediately. Falco had no family to speak of, and such displays made him…uncomfortable. The young pilot swallowed a lump in his throat as he thought of his own parents. What he wouldn't have given to share this auspicious day with them.

"Congratulations Fox."

Fox blinked, awakening from his daydream as Peppy's voice broke into his thoughts. "Thanks Old Timer," he replied, shaking the hare's extended hand. It was then that he noticed the imposing figure standing beside and slightly behind the veteran pilot. The hound's appearance was striking to say the least. Clothed in the gold embroidered, red dress uniform of the Cornerian Army, row upon row of battle ribbons pinned on his chest, and the Phoenix Kite and Silver Star around his neck, he projected an aura of age and experience that contrasted sharply with the newly commissioned ensigns around him—like a flame in the midst of the sea.

"General!"

"As you were," said General Pepper, dismissing the knee-jerk snap to attention with a wave of his gloved hand. "I take it you remember me Junior?"

Fox exhaled softly. "Yes sir, I believe I do," he nodded.

"That's good!" said Pepper. "The last time we crossed paths you were only knee high to a grasshopper." The canine smiled wryly, "As I recall, you knocked over the coffee can of lollipops on my desk."

Fox blushed, shuffling his feet from side to side as he recalled the incident, one of his first memories. "I was only three years old sir."

"That you were my boy, that you were," the general chuckled. "But you were already poking your nose into things. You were just as adventurous as your father…even then." Looking thoughtful for a moment, the hound turned to his companion. "Peppy, if you would excuse us for a few minutes? I would like to have a talk with this young ensign."

"Of course sir," Peppy nodded respectfully. "I think I'd better find Falco before things really get out of hand. I'll see you later Fox." Withdrawing into the mass of blue uniforms behind them, he quickly disappeared from view.

"Later!" Fox called after the departing hare. Gathering his courage, he advanced to Pepper's side as the general set an easy pace toward an empty corner of the field. "Congratulations on your promotion sir," he said after a brief period of silence.

"Thank you Fox," Pepper replied. "Though all things considered, being head of the System Defense Chiefs isn't all it's made out to be." The hound sighed wistfully, "I miss my old command. All I seem to do these days is slog through an unending quagmire of paperwork."

"It must be difficult," Fox agreed with a sympathetic nod. "But it's safer than a field commission."

"It is indeed," said the general. "I began my career in the infantry Junior. You need not remind me of the hazards the common foot soldier faces, even in these modern times." He closed his eyes. "I still remember the day when my squad was pinned down in a hot landing zone during the Luzonian Conflict on Zoness. There were no other friendly troops in range and enemy blaster bolts coming so thick and fast that you could walk on them. If it hadn't been for one James McCloud and his wingmen, we wouldn't have lasted five minutes." Pepper turned and looked Fox squarely in the eye, "I have never forgotten the value of close air support, nor have I forgotten the pilot who saved my life and the lives of my men."

Fox smiled broadly. "He never forgot you either sir. I've heard him talk about that battle many times ever since I was a kid."

"We've been friends for many years," Pepper nodded. "He was a good pilot and a good man. I was deeply saddened to hear of your loss."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir." The vulpine looked away for a moment, clearing his throat.

"As I said before," Pepper continued after a brief pause. "Your father taught me the value of close air support, and ever since, I've always made it a point to always work closely with the air and space defense forces. Without control of the skies, army units are hard pressed to even survive, much less accomplish their missions." The hound reached into his pocket, producing an official envelope. "I believe you'll recognize this…"

Fox raised a brow as he read his name on the sky blue paper. "Sure I do. It's my new posting." He tilted his head at the red seal on the reverse side. "Cancelled?"

"More like a delay," Pepper explained. "As you know, most of your classmates will be heading to their new squadron assignments after leave. I'm postponing your deployment by one week."

"Postponing sir?" The young pilot tilted his head ever so slightly. "May I ask why?"

"Because I have a job I want you to do for me," the general replied. "Unfortunately, I can't discuss the specifics with right away, but let's just say that it is a matter I would like resolved as soon as possible."

Fox nodded. "You can count on me sir!"

"Excellent," said Pepper. "I'll expect to see you at Big Sky Astrodrome two weeks from tomorrow. Until then, try not to drink too much, eh? I hear Ensign Lombardi has taken a liking to Zonessian Brandy," he winked. "Good day Fox."

Fox blinked. "See you later sir," he managed as Pepper departed. How could the general have known? Well, if the hound had wanted to put them on report, he would have certainly done so by now. Turning his thoughts to other matters, he eyed the blue envelope still in his hands. "Big Sky Air Force Astrodrome huh," he read aloud. "I wonder what this job is all about." The vulpine turned his steps back toward the other students. In any case, he wouldn't have very long to wait for the answer.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 

"Asteroids! Asteroids! Only 80 chanpon a piece! Hurry, they're almost gone!" The singsong voice of the snack vendor heralded her arrival as she made her way down the aisle. With the tremendous speed of the Intercontinental Hyper Express, global rail travel had long abandoned the archaic concept of a dining car. This had not however, diminished the public's appetite, and the opportunity for profit had not been lost on various small merchants, peddling treats of all kinds along the lines. For a reasonable price, one could get anything from a small piece of rock candy to a steaming bowl of udon. The possibilities were endless—provided that you had a credit or two.

"I'll have one," said a business executive as he looked up from his news pad.

A police officer beckoned with one hand. "I'd like one too."

"Three for us please," called a mother in the back, snagging one of her more adventurous cubs before he wandered away.

The snack vendor beamed, scanning thumbprints with a flat wafer in her left hand while producing toasted rice cakes from the large box around her neck with her right. Though well advanced in years, the badger had lost none of her edge, selling her wares as fast as she could hand them out to the passengers. "How about you young man," she asked, a pup at the front of the car catching her eye.

"Huh?" The little beagle shook awake, realizing he had been caught staring. "Oh, no thanks. I'm not really that hungry."

"Are you sure," asked the vendor. "Less than 1 sanpon a piece. They're really tasty!"

For a moment the child seemed to waver as he looked longingly at the shiny wrappers, but once again he shook his head. "I'm sure."

"Okay, but I'll be in the next car if you change your mind." Making a last handful of sales, the badger moved on to a new compartment and more customers. The small dog could only watch as the door slid shut behind her. Sighing, he turned his gaze to the window and contented himself as best he could with the blur of the landscape as it streaked past. The Crane Harbor Tunnel would be coming up soon, and after that, there would be nothing to see but metallic walls and the bluish-white glare of the lamps that lined them while they crossed the vast expanse of the Western Ocean. They would offer little of interest.

"Heads up!" Suddenly a stray Asteroid sailed into the canine's lap from across the aisle. Blinking, he stared at the silver foil before glancing in the direction from whence it came. A soldier bearing a CSDF shoulder patch on his uniform was looking over at him, holding another of the sweet snacks in one hand. "You gonna eat that, or are you just gonna admire the packaging?"

"Whoa, thanks a lot!" the pup exclaimed as he found his voice again. "But how did you know?"

"Are you kidding? Your face was an open book." The pilot grinned. "The name's Fox. What's yours kiddo?"

"Trevor sir," the beagle replied. "I'm afraid I can't really pay you back." His eyes shifted back to the package in his lap as if he was still unsure it was really his.

"Whoa, whoa, time out," Fox shook his head. "I'm not your CO. You don't have to call me 'sir,' and don't sweat the Asteroid huh? You look like you could use it." He pulled off the foil and took a bite of his own. The sweet rice balls had been a favorite treat ever since he was a kit, and he occasionally bought a few when he had the chance—though that was not very often. "So Trev, where are you headed," he asked after a moment, wondering what business the youngster had traveling to another continent all by himself, especially given his age.

"Copper Valley Space Camp," replied Trevor, enthusiastically munching his snack at last.

"Ah, you'll have a blast!" Fox grinned. "I was an instructor out there for a couple of summers. It's a great experience."

"Yeah," Trevor nodded. "I've wanted to go so bad, but..." he trailed off as his smile faded.

Fox arched a brow. "But what," he prompted after a moment.

The pup raised his head again. "Now that I'm actually here, I'm...kinda scared." He fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting his gaze downward as he scuffed his sneakers against the seat in front of him.

"I see." The pilot cupped his ears forward slightly. "What's on your mind?"

"I don't know." Trevor sighed in exasperation. "Everything was just fine until we left the station. Then I just did some thinking about it, and I felt funny. I mean—I know there's nothing to be afraid of, but..." the canine trailed off. He glanced down at his belly, pressing one paw against it with a nervous expression. "Maybe I ate something weird. It feels all tingly and stuff."

"Butterflies," chuckled Fox.

"Huh?" Trevor tilted his head. "Whaddya mean? I didn't eat those."

"Of course not." Fox nodded, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. "Let me guess...your palms are sweaty, your mouth is dry, and your heart is racing."

"Whoa, how did you know?"

"You've never heard of having butterflies in your stomach," asked Fox. What a strange kid this guy was turning out to be. "It happens to all of us from time to time—usually when we're going out on a limb or doing something we've never done. Don't worry...it'll pass. Once you check in and get settled, you'll forget all about it."

"You sure," Trevor asked, starting to appear a little more at ease.

"Trust me," the vulpine reassured him. "I promise you'll be wanting to stay another week when it's all said and done. Have you ever been away from home by yourself before?"

The beagle shook his head.

"There you go," Fox nodded, finding the root of the problem at last. "But it's nothing to worry about, and you won't be alone. There are hundreds of other campers just like you who are headed to Copper Valley, and odds are some of them live even further away than you do." Actually, there was no doubt about it. He had given this little spill more than once while serving as a group leader there. Homesickness had been a common occurrence at the beginning of each session, especially among elementary school students. "Besides," he added, "Your GL will be there for you 24/7, and your parents are just a comm. terminal away. My advice to you is take it easy and have some fun...okay?"

"Well, okay." The pup seemed to relax, looking a little sheepish. "Guess I'd make a lousy pilot huh? You can't go into space if you're scared."

Fox raised a brow. "I wouldn't be so sure about that," he commented. "If you want something bad enough and put your mind to it, you can do anything." A thoughtful expression played upon his features as he leaned over. "I'll let you in on a little secret Trev. When I did my first emergency reentry back at the academy, it scared-the-snot out of me!"

"Whoa, really?" Trevor blinked, sitting up a little straighter in surprise.

"You'd better believe it!" Fox nodded. "It's a ballistic trajectory, just like the old capsules from centuries ago," he said, bringing his right hand downward past his left like a craft spiraling out of control at a sharp angle. "If you give it too much reverse thrust, you'll come in too steep and burn up. If you don't give it enough, you'll bounce right off the atmosphere, out of the test range, and end up a greasy smear on one of the orbital stations."

Trevor cringed. "Did you make it out okay?"

"Sure," replied Fox. "I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you if I hadn't. It scared the snot out of me, but you know what? I got over it. Life would be pretty boring if it was perfectly safe right?" The pilot grinned again. "Like I said, you can do anything if you set your mind to it, and space camp won't have you flying solo like that anytime soon. You can do it! The only things you should be worrying about are keeping up with all the new friends you're gonna make and finding a frame for your certificate at the end of the session. You copy?"

Trevor beamed, saluting with his right hand. "I copy!"

"Good," Fox smiled as the entrance aperture of Crane Harbor Tunnel engulfed the train, replacing daylight with cold, artificial illumination. Well, it appeared that he still had some counseling skills after all, despite trading his camp uniform for a flight jacket a long time ago. His words of encouragement had allayed the boy's fears and concerns. Now he hoped he could convince just one more individual that there was nothing to worry about—himself.

* * *

"Identification?"

Fox exhaled softly in irritation as he presented his ID wafer for what seemed like the hundredth time, placing it into the unsmiling MP's extended hand. "Twenty sanpon says I'm who I claim to be," he remarked idly to the occupants of the checkpoint. The two burly canines were secured behind a level eight force field and armed to the teeth with two rapid-fire, remote controlled laser turrets, and blaster rifles that made the Type 42 standard issue pilot's sidearm seem like a slingshot in comparison.

"Are you trying to be funny," the guard replied coldly, snapping the storage device into a narrow reader on the console in front of him.

"No sir," said Fox, clearing his throat. Talk about not having a sense of humor. Then again, the entire base was nothing short of a fortress, which genuinely surprised him considering the relatively small number of interceptor squadrons that called it home. He couldn't even count the security barriers he had cleared just to reach the main gate. If anyone from the outside desired unauthorized access, it would probably require nothing less than a full brigade of assault troopers to breach the outer defenses.

"Place your right thumb on the pad, and look straight ahead," the MP instructed after a moment. Fox obeyed, touching the scanner firmly while remaining perfectly still. Thank God they were almost done with him. The two large canvas bags strapped over his shoulders were starting to get heavy. After a brief pause, an electronic tone greeted his ears, followed by a synthesized female voice.

"Verification complete. Recognize Ensign Fox McCloud, Cornerian Space Defense Force."

"Okay, you're clear." The MP nodded gruffly, returning the chip and opening the force field. A loud, metallic clunking noise issued from the heavily armored blast doors beyond, and Fox wasted no time in heading through them as fast as he could given the burden he carried.

"If I have to go through this every time I leave the base, I might as well forget about weekend liberties," he muttered under his breath as he took a moment to get his bearings.

Unlike the overcrowded, cramped conditions that defined life in Corneria City, Big Sky Astrodrome was located in the middle of a sparsely populated, forested area of Lutania with lots of open airspace and plenty of room to sprawl. A long wall topped with electric razor wire enclosed row upon row of aging, concrete, single-story buildings that hardly seemed worthy of the state-of-the-art security systems outside. The ugly gray structures stretched for several hundred meters in every direction around the command center, and it was here that Fox directed his steps, pulling the blue envelope from his shirt pocket to check his assignment once more. "Not too many details here," he thought to himself as he walked. Chances were he was one of many replacement pilots for the 31st Air Group, which was returning to the home world after a tour of duty in the belt according to the other soldiers on the transport. He'd know soon enough whether or not it was just a rumor.

A short walk down a poorly lit corridor and down one flight of stairs brought Fox at long last to his final obstacle, a large, wooden door on which hung a single, tarnished plaque, barely readable in its condition. Nevertheless, this was definitely the base commander's office according to the directions he had received. The faint murmur of voices from within made him a little edgy. Was it okay to interrupt? Well, it would be better than just staring at the posters on the nearby bulletin board out in the hallway. He steadied his nerves, took a deep breath, and rapped his knuckles firmly against the hard surface.

"Enter!" One of the voices rose, clearly discernable from the opposite side of the wall. Heeding its summons, Fox turned the knob and strode through the doorway toward its owner. The first thing that struck him about the room was its size, far larger than he would have believed given the closely packed, cell-like compartments he had passed along the way. The walls were lined with a series of obsolete, metal file cabinets, doubtfully still in use thanks to a compact terminal occupying one corner with a bright, clear display panel, more typical of contemporary data storage. A large desk of polished wood stood before the window between the flags of Corneria and the space defense forces, commanding respect from all who approached it, though the pilot's gaze was quickly drawn away as he beheld the occupants of the room, one of whom he recognized immediately.

"Ensign Fox McCloud reporting as ordered sir," the vulpine stated crisply, clicking his heels together and doing his best to ignore the weight of his belongings, which felt like lead pulling against his shoulders as he stood at rigid attention. The owner of the desk, an imposing husky with sharply chiseled, well-defined features offered no verbal acknowledgement. Instead, he rose, advancing to stand only inches from the pilot's left ear. It was all Fox could do to keep staring straight ahead, his face expressionless as he felt the captain's eyes boring into him like laser scalpels. With agonizing slowness, the officer plodded around him in a tight circle, studying every detail until finally, he shook his head.

"He's just a boy," the canine scoffed. "Really General Pepper, you can't be serious!"

Fox stiffened, if that was even possible in his present position. He set his jaw, resolutely keeping his gaze on the trees through the window until addressed directly. Why did he get the feeling he wasn't going to like this assignment?

"Do I look like I'm joking," the general asked.

"But sir," protested the base commander, "he's fresh out of the academy and hasn't even a single mission under his belt. Perhaps someone with more experience?"

"Captain Kaminski," Pepper replied unsmilingly from his seat. "Ensign McCloud has my full confidence in his skills as a combat pilot. You wanted my recommendation did you not?"

"Yes sir, I did," Kaminski sighed. "But with all due respect, we need someone who can show us what this craft can really do—fly it to the very edge of the envelope. Frankly sir, in my opinion it would take someone at least ten years his senior."

Pepper rose to his feet slowly. "Captain," he said. "You and I both know that your first choice for this mission is...no longer an option. When you could find no suitable replacement under your command, you came to me. Fox will get the job done. You can either take him, or we can put one of the civilian pilots back in the cockpit and shelve this project right now. I doubt any of them have the skill or the stamina to fly the course you have chosen. Trust me," he said, placing one hand on the vulpine's shoulder. "Fox will get the job done."

Fox swallowed, the general's white glove feeling as heavy as a battle cruiser. What sort of enormous responsibility was he being called to accept? Who was the first choice for the mission, and why wasn't he available? He felt both privileged and flattered that General Pepper believed so strongly in his ability, but at the same time, he felt unsure of himself under Captain Kaminski's piercing gaze. He could barely feel his shoulders anymore.

"Very well," Kaminski grudgingly relented. "Since you've put it that way. Ensign McCloud," he barked, speaking to the pilot directly for the first time.

"Yes sir." Fox winced internally, wondering how much longer he could stand it before his muscles gave way.

"You will report to Lieutenant Jenkins immediately. Once you've settled into your quarters, I expect you to report to the holosimulator no later than 1600 hours." Shuffling back behind his desk, Kaminski frowned unpleasantly. "And by the way, let me make one think crystal clear kid...I have a very low tolerance for failure. _Don't_ disappoint me."

* * *

"Rrrrrah," Fox grunted as he finally allowed his heavy bags to drop onto his mattress. Grimacing, he rolled his shoulders slightly, massaging one with a free hand as he glanced around the poorly lit quarters he would share with three other pilots, none of whom seemed to be around for the moment. Like all the other buildings, the barracks were definitely showing their age, dilapidated and smelling a bit musty from a barely functioning ventilation system. A set of closets was built into the walls, allowing room for a small table and chairs to occupy what little floor space existed, and the entirety of the ceiling was obscured by a vast network of pipes, branching this way and that as they disappeared into every bulkhead for parts unknown, fortunately just high enough for those in the top bunks to avoid accidentally hitting them in the morning. All things considered, it was definitely a step down from the academy. It reminded Fox of an aircraft carrier he had visited at the Museum of Naval History, a centuries old warship with even more Spartan accommodations than these. Back then, junior officers like him made do with little more than padded shelves. Oh well...it wasn't really the quarters that worried him. He had been in that office for close to half an hour, standing as stiff as a board while the husky grilled him on trivial knowledge such as zero-G bailout and basic combat maneuvers, bearing that deadweight the entire time. Such thinly veiled hostility--that was what worried him.

"Settling in?"

Fox swiveled an ear, turning to see General Pepper standing in the doorway. "Yes sir. Thank you sir," he said quietly.

"Good," the hound nodded, striding forward into the cramped room. "Ah, this looks familiar," he chuckled after surveyed his surroundings for a few moments. "Not much different from my first assignment Brings back memories." He gave Fox a wry smile, "Of course...that was way before you were born."

"Yes sir," Fox nodded. "You don't become a general in a week."

"No my boy, you don't," Pepper agreed. "Nor do you become a captain in a week. It takes years of experience, dedicated service, and the ability to make the difficult decisions that are the daily burden of command. When you reach Kaminski's age, I'm sure you'll know that firsthand."

Fox raised a brow. "General, about what happened back there—"

"Captain Kaminski is a fine officer," Pepper continued, cutting him off as he began to remove his white gloves. "Triple ace, tens of thousands of flight hours, and he was an instructor at the academy for several years before he came here to take charge of the Tenth Air Wing. Take it from me, he knows his pilots when he sees them, and he has the highest expectations of every last member of his squadrons. He knows your academy flight records were exemplary, but in his eyes, a pilot who has not tasted real battle is a rookie, worthy of little respect, and nothing, not even a recommendation from the Chairman of the Joint System Chiefs will convince him otherwise."

Fox took a breath, opening his mouth to protest for all he was worth, but the general's stony visage somehow made him think better of it. Exhaling softly, he nodded, lowering his gaze. "Yes sir. I don't question his judgment sir."

"See that you don't," Pepper nodded firmly. "But," his gaze softened after a moment, "In this particular instance, I believe he and I have a little difference of opinion." An odd smile played upon his lips as he shuffled toward the door, nodding down the corridor. "Come with me Junior. There's something I want to show you."

Fox blinked, tilting his head ever so slightly before following the general down the long hallway, out of the building, and across a long stretch of apparently unused, but well-kept runway toward a gargantuan set of hangars, seeming to be separated from the rest of the astrodrome. Now he was really confused, and enduring not a small amount of frustration as he trudged along, matching the pace of the hound's ambling gait. Why the hell wouldn't anyone give him a straight answer? Was that asking too much? Why was he here at all...on a base full of contradictions populated by people speaking in riddles and commanders with chips on their shoulders?

"Tell me Fox," Pepper asked, breaking into the vulpine's thoughts. "What have you heard about Arspace Dynamics lately?"

"Some rumors here and there," Fox replied, recalling the stack of aviation magazines packed among his belongings. "Word has it they're giving the Arwing prototypes their final pre-production shakedowns."

"Indeed," Pepper nodded. "If all goes well, they should make a fine addition to the defense air arm...provided that their engineers aren't exaggerating."

Fox's ears sprang forward. "With all due respect sir, I've read about the government contract requirements, and that's a _huge_ understatement," he said excitedly. "That craft is a fighter pilot's dream. It's got at least twice the maximum speed, three times the range, and half the turning radius of the best frontline interceptors."

"Oh ho! I see you _have_ been keeping up with it after all." Pepper smiled in amusement, leading the way through a small side door with a salute to the MPs standing guard, one on either side of the entrance. "Not that it surprises me," he remarked as their footsteps echoed on the hard metal floor. "You definitely take after James—head always in the clouds," the hound prodded gently.

"I guess so," Fox chuckled. "I'd give anything to take one up for a short hop," he thought aloud. What self-respecting fighter pilot wouldn't? Of course he knew that was an impossible dream. The prototypes were on the other side of the world at the Arspace Dynamics Donryu-Kitajima Proving Grounds. At least, that was where the last sightings had been reported.

"I'm sure you would," agreed General Pepper. After turning a corner, the hound paused in front of a heavy, reinforced door, labeled with bold, red letters. "RESTRICTED ACCESS," it said. "NO ENTRY PERMITTED." The general paid it little mind, gripping the durasteel handle firmly with one bare hand. No sooner had his fingers closed around the bar than a series of wide, blue beams passed over him from head to toe, leaping from tiny emitters embedded in the frame. A moment later, the sound of a heavy latch clanking open echoed from the interior room. "Well, here we are," said Pepper, the odd smile one again returning to his muzzle as he lead the way into the cavernous hangar. "You say it's a fighter pilot's dream do you? Well, what do you make of this?"

Fox stopped dead in his tracks, momentarily speechless as he found himself standing scarcely a dozen paces from the fuselage of a sleek, powerful interceptor. Its large wings were folded neatly against its body, and its twin tailfins, painted a prototype's ocean blue, bore the serial number ADFX-3. There was no mistaking it. It was an Arwing! "But—what is it doing here," he asked, unable to tear his gaze away.

"As you expected Junior, they're in final pre-production testing," General Pepper replied, replacing his white gloves. "Big Sky is remote, an ideal testing ground away from the public eye. Here we can put it through its paces without any disturbances—until we're ready to show it to the world."

Fox nodded. This was definitely the last place he would have expected to find such an advanced fighter. For that matter, the rest of the decaying base was little better than a communist relic from the industrial ages. Drawn like an iron filing to an enormous bar magnet, the young pilot slowly approached the imposing bird of prey, taking his time while he studied it from every angle. The cannon hard points were apparently sealed, pending weapons installation, but this did little to detract from the aura that radiated from the body of the Arwing. He placed his hand upon the nose, running his fingers across its cold, smooth, ablative armor. He bowed his head, ducking beneath the wide, swept wings. He examined the thrust vectored exhaust nozzle directly between the tails, its yawning mouth dark and silent, belying the awesome power of its plasma engine, but he didn't stop there. The inspection continued until the vulpine had covered practically every square inch of its body. It was truly breathtaking—a harmonious blending of strength and grace. One almost feared the sleeping raptor might suddenly spring to life and take flight, soaring into the heavens like the legendary phoenix, never to return to its concrete cage.

"Get your gear."

"Sir?" Fox blinked. For a moment he thought the general had actually told him to suit up.

"You hard of hearing," Pepper goaded from across the room. "Let's move it Fox!"

So it wasn't his imagination! A broad grin spread across his muzzle as the pieces of the puzzle finally came together. Was this the job of which the general had spoken? Was this the project that Kaminski guarded so jealously? Was he really going to pilot this machine? It definitely looked that way. "Yes sir!!" he exclaimed, feeling giddy with excitement as he rushed to obey. One thing was for certain. If he _was_ dreaming, he never wanted to wake up.

* * *

In the space of only fifteen minutes, Fox found himself strapped firmly into the prototype's cockpit, hardly able to contain his excitement while he fastened his helmet straps tightly under his chin. He had logged thousands of flight hours over the academy and thousands more in the simulators, but this...this was different. This feeling—getting the chance to pilot this extraordinary craft—was like his first time all over again.

"You know," General Pepper remarked thoughtfully. "If this craft is too much for you to handle, we could always put you back in an ST-4."

"Not on your life sir!" The vulpine shot back.

"Just making sure you were awake," the hound chuckled, backing away as the whine of the Arwing's power plant shattered the tranquility of the hangar.

Sensing the presence of a pilot, the canopy descended smoothly into place while Fox maneuvered gently toward the daylight that streamed through the main doors from the early afternoon sun, hovering just above the tarmac as he examined the holographic displays and the controls. They were surprisingly intuitive, and most bore just enough resemblance to the SF-12 Corneria Fighter for him to take command with ease.

"Sun Visor, this is Echo One requesting clearance for takeoff."

"Echo One, this is Sun Visor," the primary tower responded after a few moments. "Permission granted. You are clear to proceed."

"All right," Fox grinned, eyeing the great, blue expanse of the open sky. "Let's rock and roll!" Opening up the throttle, he gasped as the sudden, unexpectedly forceful acceleration slammed him against the back of his seat, the several hundred thousand pounds of thrust behind him propelled the Arwing into a nearly vertical climb. The engine's deep, powerful roar reverberated like the sound of rolling thunder. Fox didn't just hear it—he _felt_ the resonance deep within his chest, penetrating all the way to his very bones, and in the space of only a few seconds, he found himself at a commanding altitude high above the base as he leveled off near 15,000 feet.

"Incredible," he exclaimed, finding words at last. "I've never seen _anything_ that could climb this fast!" Had he been shot out of a cannon? Adjusting his grip on the stick, he dipped his left wing, putting the craft into a shallow bank to survey the terrain far below. Besides the astrodrome and the single highway running parallel to the mountain range toward the distant horizon, there was almost no sign of civilization, save a single hamlet on the banks of Lake Caldwell and a few widely scattered houses on the edges of the government forest. The small combat air patrol was well off his six, headed in the opposite direction in standard formation over the airfields. Before him stretched thousands of acres of untouched wilderness and the wide-open airspace above it. He had plenty of room to work, but just to be safe he decided to put some extra distance between himself and base, opening the throttle more slowly and smoothly. The Arwing obeyed, this time gradually building up to Mach 6, its plasma exhaust growing brighter and brighter.

"Sun Visor to Echo One," came a voice over the comm. "Fox, this is General Pepper. Don't mess up that fighter on your first hop. I don't want any scratches on that paint."

"Don't worry sir," replied Fox. "I've got it all under control."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Pepper said, an edge of firmness creeping into his tone. "Remember, you don't own that plane—the Cornerian people do. Be reasonable Fox."

"I copy sir," Fox assured him. "Not a scratch." He glanced down at his instruments before making a quick visual confirmation of his surroundings. There were no other aircraft in sight. He was indeed alone. "Okay," he said, taking a deep breath. "Let's see what this prototype can _really_ do!" With a flick of his wrists, he sent the craft spinning through a rolling scissors maneuver, wincing as the resulting g-forces pressed him down into his seat. Tightening his turn radius with each pass, the vulpine carried himself forward into a split S, inverting and climbing downward to regain his momentum.

"Not bad! Not bad at all!!"

Punching the throttle wide open, he streaked toward the nearby, snowcapped peak of Mount Armstrong, only to barrel roll at the last second and pull away at a sharp angle, doing three complete 360 degree rotations without stalling the craft and still missing the rock face with a hundred meters to spare. It was more than just 'not bad.' It was astounding. The Arwing's agility surpassed even his wildest dreams. Its large wings constantly pivoted back and forth with the sudden changes in velocity, their minute adjustments always maintaining an optimum sweep angle, and even the slightest pressure on the controls delivered immediate response. Adding to that the state-of-the-art composite materials, and it felt lighter than a feather. He could get used to this! Chaining together maneuver after maneuver like a gymnast on a high bar, the fighter danced like a top in Fox's hands, heaven and earth exchanging places again and again, faster and faster.

"Yeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaahhh!!!" He whooped, plummeting toward the earth at top speed before heaving the stick back and pulling up, nearly brushing the tops of the trees as he arched out of the dive. That was pushing it. His g-suit hissed like an angry cobra as it struggled to keep pace with the acrobatics, greater and greater demands being placed upon it with every passing second. "Gaaaaaagggh!" The vulpine gritted his teeth, the strain on his body threatening to rob him of his consciousness, but he didn't care. He was enjoying himself far too much. In fact, he actually relished this sensation, the one he felt in the pit of his stomach when the world around him shifted to varying shades of gray. This exhilaration only came from testing his limits, challenging the sky as he soared through the clouds on eagle's wings. He was alive! This was how it felt to truly live! It would make a transport pilot hurl, but to Fox McCloud, things couldn't get any better.

"Echo One, this is Sun Visor!"

They could however, get worse. The voice over the comm was made of ice, and Fox, abruptly jerked out of his revelry by its stinging rebuke, recognized it instantly as Kaminski's. "This is Echo One," he answered, returning to level flight and bracing himself. Where was General Pepper?

"McCloud, you have just five minutes to put that bird on the ground and get your ass down in my office," Kaminski said ominously. "In case you haven't noticed, that's a multi-billion sanpon craft in your hands, not a toy for you to pull stunts with. Get back here on the double, or I'll make sure you never fly again. Do we understand each other?"

Fox swallowed, ears flattening beneath his helmet. "Yes sir," he replied, banking hard right and heading straight back toward the astrodrome. "We understand each other." He suddenly felt deflated again. Given his last meeting with the husky scarcely a couple of hours ago, he hated to imagine getting chewed out for heaven knew how long.

"I certainly hope so for your sake kid." The commander's voice could have frozen molten lava. "Five minutes! Sun Visor out."

Fox groaned. Somehow he doubted his survival would depend on his ability to pilot the Arwing. Rather, it would depend on whether or not he could measure up to his CO's standards. Was that even possible? No, he wasn't going to ask such a stupid question. Of course it was possible! He'd been through worse situations before, and he'd find a way through this one too...even if it killed him. However, he earnestly hoped it wouldn't have to come to that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The fifty red bull's-eyes anchored to the dry, brown earth of the practice range were tough to hit even under ideal circumstances. Each was barely two meters in diameter, much smaller than the smallest silhouette any potential target would ever offer, save individual ground troops. Unfortunately for Fox, these were about as far from ideal circumstances as he could possibly imagine. Moving into his eighth grueling hour at the prototype's controls, he could feel his reflexes beginning to dull as he lined up for another pass. To be sure, the young pilot wasn't having second thoughts about his assignment. Frankly, he loved the Arwing so much he could have slept in the saddle, but what was that old saying again…too much of a good thing? At this point, he would have almost traded his wings of gold for a hot meal and a break…almost.

"Echo One commencing firing run," the vulpine spoke mechanically into the comm. He'd said those words so many times today that he'd lost track. No matter…this time would be different. This time he'd register enough hits to satisfy even his CO's unreasonably stringent requirements. Then again, how often had he imagined _that_ in the last couple of hours? He was miles downrange, too far away to see the husky, but he had no doubt that Kaminski could see him. As usual, the base commander stood in the center of the large observation deck, flanked by his two ever-present lieutenants who recorded the accuracy of each attack. Thus freed from the burden of tallying results, the captain could divert his undivided attention to scrutinizing the minute details of each and every approach, and scrutinize he did. The thin, transparent eyepiece affixed to the side of his head was more than just an odd pair of glasses. Through it, the canine saw all, his enhanced vision easily tracking the craft's position as well as the series of holographic rings marking the requested approach vector.

Fox felt his pulse quicken as the Arwing streaked toward the first nav ring. He gripped the controls firmly, blanking his mind of all unnecessary thoughts and distractions, of which he could permit none. The outside world, the base, Kaminski standing on his platform…all such irrelevant matters faded away until only the hollow, silver disks remained. An audio cue from the fighter's computer pricked his ears beneath his helmet as he mentally counted off the last few seconds…and then all at once, they were upon him!

The rings were everywhere, scarcely a second apart with their apertures pointing in all directions. Left! Right! Left again! Two above! One below! There were so many of them, coming thick and fast like a hail of bullets. There was no time for indecision, no time to think! If he did that, he'd miss a ring, and he could not allow himself to stray from the course! He was flying purely on instinct now, pilot and craft becoming one, merging into a single, living, breathing animal. Gut reaction was the only rule.

"Eeeeyuuuhh!" He drew a sharp breath, feeling a bit lightheaded as he pulled into an unusually steep climb, passing through the final set of loops at full throttle. It would not be long now. "Huuugh!" His neck muscles tensed as he desperately fought to keep the blood from rushing down into his shoes. No, he couldn't black out…not now! He had to be awake and alert in order to line up with the ground targets. A high-pitched tone from the computer sounded, indicating he had cleared the last ring. That was his signal! Rolling the fighter onto its back and pulling up on the stick, he swiftly aligned the HUD crosshairs on the tiny disks below and squeezed the trigger. Angry green blaster bolts erupted from the craft's nose cannon, slamming into the hardened shields that hugged the surface and causing them to flare briefly with an aquamarine brilliance. Strange…somehow Fox couldn't help feeling slightly disappointed with the short flashes. Without protection, the Arwing's primary armament would have vaporized the adamantium shells and left the field pockmarked with deep craters where they once stood. _That_ would have been truly satisfying. Plunging another thousand feet, he let loose a second salvo, striking the next series of targets without a hitch. Nearly every round found its mark as he skimmed just above treetop level.

"So far so good," Fox thought. He was almost home. Dim green boxes were already appearing around the final series on his targeting visor. Now, if he could just get the proper angle. "What the—" A proximity alarm jerked his head to the side. "More navigation rings!" There were two to be exact, virtually at right angles and nearly touching each other. Where had they come from? "Shit," he cursed under his breath. Even with the prototype's incredibly tight turning radius, it would be extremely difficult to take them both, and even if he did manage it, the exit vector would practically force him to miss half the remaining dummies. Nevertheless, he had to give it a try. "Huuuoooooooooooooooooh!" With a war cry that could have awakened the dead, he dipped his left wing and yanked back on the stick as far as it could possibly go, closing the throttle almost entirely. The raptor shuddered in protest, its wings tracing sharp contrails on either side while the crushing weight of inertia sought to press him flatter than a sheet of paper. It was nearly unbearable, but somehow through the deepening shadows that obscured his vision, he was vaguely aware of the nose arcing through one ring, but the other…what about the other? No, he wasn't going to make it. He was too far off center! Not enough of the Arwing would cut the cross section to register a clean pass…or would it? "Just…..a little…..more," he grunted, trying with all his might to yaw just one more inch of the craft through the disk. The seconds ticked by like hours; until at last the sharp tone told him he'd tipped the scale in his favor, but there was no time to celebrate this small victory. With his head still swimming, he brought his guns to bear on what targets he could still reach and strafed for all he was worth. The question was…would it be sufficient?

"End run," called one of the lieutenants over the comm. system.

Fox gasped, breathing heavily as he pulled up into a gentle right bank, circling slowly overhead while his CO's subordinates furiously entered results into their data pads below. He raised his visor and mopped the sweat from his brow with his right glove, feeling dizzy and completely worn out. It just didn't make sense. Why hadn't those last two rings shown up on sensors until he was almost right on top of them? He knew the testing program was sophisticated, but it had never hidden any sections of its randomly generated flight paths since day one. Something like that was too calculating—too devious to be part of the AI's bag of tricks. It was almost like someone on the ground _wanted_ him to screw up.

"Final results for Run 96," came the other lieutenant's voice over the radio. "Course clear time five minutes seventeen seconds, no navigation rings missed, and five hundred thirty-two rounds fired. Adjusted total accuracy 90."

"All right! Am I good or _am I good_!" Fox thought with a pleased grin. Unbelievable! That was the best showing he'd had all day, despite the last second curve ball. Even the worst critic couldn't argue with those numbers. If he hurried, he could even catch a late lunch at the mess hall if the debriefing wasn't long winded.

"Not good enough!" Kaminski's remark stung like a cowhide whip. "Let's give it another go from the top!" Fox could hardly believe what he was hearing.

"_Sir_!"

"You heard me ensign," the base commander said coldly.

"Sir, with all due respect—" Fox began.

"You were too slow, your approach angle was three degrees too steep, your turning was sloppy, and you failed to destroy all of the targets. Do it over kid!"

"_Captain_—"

"I _won't _tell you again McCloud," the canine's voice rose ominously. "We're burning daylight here. Let's move!"

What _was_ it with this guy?

-----------------------------

Kaminski took his time pouring over the data pad before him, occasionally tapping its screen to scroll through another page of hit percentages. Fox, who found himself once again standing rigidly at attention like a first year plebe, was ignored as if he was just another piece of furniture, collecting dust in the center of the now distasteful office. He was surprised there wasn't a groove in the floor by now, an outline of two heels that always clicked together over that same spot day after day. At last, the husky raised his head with a mirthless smile. "I suppose you think I'm being unfair," he said as he tossed the report down on his desk and began to pace.

Fox's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. He knew better than to answer this late in the game.

"You're also thinking that I'm obsessing over details…that I'm being a perfectionist," Kaminski continued, circling around to stand over the young pilot's right shoulder. "I hate to admit it kid, but you're probably right." The base commander frowned, resuming his slow waltz across the wooden floor. "To you this Arwing is just some sort of hotrod for you to fool around with as you please." He whirled about, staring the vulpine squarely in the eye, "But it's so much more than that! This project was conceived when you were still in diapers as an effort to produce a single fighter that could do the work of an entire squadron. It has taken years of work, the dedication and perseverance of thousands of scientists and engineers, and hundreds of billions of sanpon to bring it to fruition today, and I cannot emphasize enough how vitally important it is to the security of the Lylat System and the Cornerian people." The canine turned his back to glance out at the sunset through the large window. "Kid, there are pilots out there who have waited their entire careers for an assignment such as yours to come along. Such an opportunity is not bestowed lightly. Were I in your position, I would not allow myself to trivialize these shakedown tests as you seem to do."

Fox clenched his teeth, both hurt and infuriated, as he stood motionless. Trivial? _Trivial!_ Was it not enough that he had spent an entire day in that cockpit? Was it not enough that he had performed every task set before him, no matter how demanding or questionable it appeared? Was it not enough that he was pushing his body to the breaking point to put the craft through its paces? Was _this _his commanding officer's idea of trivial? It took every ounce of discipline and training that he had ever received to swallow his pride in the face of such vicious, unwarranted criticism and bear it in silence.

"Take Run Thirty-Seven for example," Kaminski barked, swiping the pad with a wave of his hand. "You call this an attack? A grade-schooler throwing spitballs could do better!"

"I was recovering from a nine G turn," Fox replied, struggling to keep his voice from rising. "By the time I got my bearings, half the targets were too close for—"

"Excuses!" Kaminski snapped. "And what about this approach on Run Eighty? You missed twelve rings!"

"Out of two hundred twenty-five," Fox protested. "Sir, that's only five percent—"

"_More_ excuses!" The veteran pilot thundered. "And I'm still not satisfied with Run Ninety-Six. That last series was right under your nose! What do you have to say for yourself!"

Fox inhaled sharply, almost trembling with rage. His self-control was in tatters, threatening to disintegrate at any second. "Permission to speak freely sir," he seethed, practically spitting each word as it rolled off his tongue. If only this guy wasn't his commanding officer…

Kaminski furrowed his brows, the flickering of distant lightning seeming to dance behind his eyes. "Granted," he replied, leaning back against the edge of his desk with folded arms. "I'm all ears."

"Sir, my performance on the course today was right on!"

"Is that so," the base commander scoffed.

"Damn straight!" Fox exploded. "You want accuracy sir? By your own staff's most optimistic calculations, a seventy-five to eighty-two percent rating was the best we could hope for in this simulation. I exceeded those limits seven times!"

"Was that supposed to impress me," Kaminski sneered derisively. "I was in a cockpit beating the odds while you were still in preschool learning how to count to ten!"

Fox's fur bristled in indignation. "That's not the point," he fired back.

"No it's not." Kaminski's muzzle wrinkled in disgust. "You just don't get it do you kid?

The point is, this isn't the academy anymore, and you treating this assignment like just another hop in the Corneria City flight range is beginning to wear out my patience!" He rose and turned his back, his form dark and ominous against the crimson skies. "What I need, is a _real_ pilot."

Fox snarled, slamming one fist down on the desk with a loud bang. "Just what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean!"

Kaminski glanced over his shoulder, his eyes cold. After a long moment, he moved behind his desk, leaning forward to put himself nose-to-nose with the young airman. "You might find this hard to believe, but I taught at the academy for close to ten years. You think you're talented? I've seen dozens of kids like you graduate at the top of their class and not last thirty seconds in a real dogfight. You think you got yourself into this outfit because of your record? The only reason I tolerate you is because you were rammed down my throat by the head of the Joint System Chiefs. You're green kid—green as a tree frog! Your record means nothing to me!"

Fox drew himself up to his full height. "Sir, I don't give a damn if you're impressed with my record or not. Frankly, I don't think I _could_ impress you." Perhaps he had entertained such thoughts in the beginning, hopes that had been quickly dashed in the span of a week. "But captain," he growled, eyes smoldering in anger like burning coals, "I have never taken my position here for granted, and I assure you—I have never, _ever_ viewed a single one of my duties as trivial!"

"Then prove it to me with clean flying," the husky retorted, apparently unmoved.

"Sir, if you want those runs any cleaner, you'll need a machine! No pilot ever made could measure up to the standards you've expected of me lately!"

"Oh ho, so I'm expecting too much of you am I?"

Shit! Fox winced internally, realizing he'd said too much. Another proverb from his primary school years crossed his mind. "The words you say are like little birds," his third grade teacher had told him. "Once they are allowed to flutter out of the window, they cannot be taken back again." His slip of the tongue had just given Kaminski a load of ammunition.

"Perhaps I _have_ been expecting too much of you lately," said the base commander. "You know," he murmured, fingering one of the aircraft models that sat near his name placard. "If the Arwing is too much for you to handle, I could always put you back in a Corneria Fighter."

"Just like General Pepper," thought Fox. "Only he's not joking."

"Or something less demanding perhaps?" Kaminski leaned forward again, "Say…a cargo shuttle making the Papetoon run?" He almost seemed to be enjoying himself. "Is that what you want?"

Checkmate. Fox couldn't believe he had been so stupid. Losing this war of words was bad enough, but to be beaten over the head with his own argument—that was worse. He drew a slow breath, lungs filling as if to yell at the top of his voice, but instead, only two bitter words left his muzzle. "No…sir."

"Good," Kaminski quipped. "I'm glad we were able to straighten that out. You will continue as an Arwing test pilot, and I will expect your performance on the final hop Friday afternoon to be significantly better. Do we understand each other?"

"Perfectly sir," the pilot replied.

"Dismissed!"

Fox clicked his heels together smartly, his mouth a tight line as he left behind the hateful room. It was not until he was safely out of earshot that he slammed one fist into a lonely vending machine, hardly feeling it at all.

"Warning, attempts to obtain product without first presenting the proper credits will be unsuccessful and may result in bodily injury," a pre-recorded voice protested from a small speaker beside the touch panel.

"Go to hell," he grumbled. The mess hall was closed by now, but he had somehow lost his appetite. What he needed was a stiff drink, something the machine was unlikely to have in its inventory of recipes. It was time to take a little walk.

----------------------

"Well howdy there Fox!" Mike, the owner of the North Star Cantina, nodded with a smile. "Good to see you! Heh, you're practically a regular now by the looks of it."

"Uh-huh," Fox replied half-heartedly. "I suppose you could say that." Of the three establishments in this sleepy little town, he frequented this rundown bar most of all—not for the fact that it was only a twenty-minute walk from the base, nor was it for the drinks. It was the indefatigable spirit and unflagging morale of the middle aged proprietor that kept bringing him back time and time again. No matter how bad things on the flight line got during the week, Mike always managed to coax at least a small smile out of him before he left.

"Whoa, why the long face pal," queried the Labrador. "You look like you got hit by the cement truck. That captain of yours giving you a rough time again?"

"How'd you guess," Fox muttered dryly.

"Oh, just a feeling," the canine quipped. "That, and you look about as ragged as I've ever seen you."

"Yeah, well…after twelve straight hours in a cockpit without a break, I'm not surprised." Fox cleared his throat, running one hand through his matted head fur.

"Ouch!" The black dog winced. "I think I have something that'll fix you right up though." Reaching behind the counter, Mike soon produced an old tin mug and a bottle of frothing brown liquid. "On the house buddy," he said sympathetically as he filled the container with the odd concoction. "Drink up!"

"Thanks," said Fox, raising his mug to his host with a grateful nod before taking a deep draught. Almost instantly he wished he hadn't. Too late, he realized his error as the liquor turned to burning aviation fuel going down his throat. Tears sprang to his eyes as he clamped his jaws shut and tried with all his might to swallow. "Guuuhh!" He coughed, barely managing to keep it down. "Mike, what _is_ this stuff? You trying to put me out of my misery or something?"

"If you mean six feet under, I have other ways of dispatching unruly customers," Mike chuckled. "Come now! It'll put fur on you chest."

"What am I, a salamander?" Fox smirked, bracing himself as he took another fiery gulp.

"'Course you aren't," Mike grinned. "Son, I've been running this place for close to forty years now. I've seen a lot of hotshots sit at my bar, and under the circumstances, I'd say you're handling yourself better than most. Just don't let your commander get to you."

"Oh, he's gotten to me all right," Fox scoffed. "It doesn't matter how clean I fly. I just can't seem to do anything right in his book. Frankly, it'd make a saint lose his temper." He tilted his cup back as if to accentuate his point, finishing off his drink with a grimace. "But I didn't say I was giving up."

"That's the spirit!" Mike nodded. "No one can ask more of a man than his best. Just give it all you've got, and no matter how things turn out, you'll have no regrets. That's my two bits."

"True," agreed Fox. "Maybe _I_ won't have any regrets, but neither will my CO when he ends my career." He could recall Kaminski threatening to ground him permanently on more than one occasion, to strip him of his assignment and anchor him firmly to the tarmac for the remainder of his tour of duty, something he knew to be insufferable. His gaze shifted downward, drawn to the gold pin adorning his flight jacket, a great eagle clutching a starburst in its outstretched talons. Of all the capable personnel who formed the ranks of the Cornerian air arm, only the proud few who managed to survive the academy's rigorous star fighter program were allowed the privilege of wearing it, and none among them took the honor lightly.

"_Well, I'm off to school Dad. See you later!"_

"_Whoa, not so fast Junior!" James McCloud looked up from his newspaper pad at his young son. As usual, the kit's navy blue windbreaker was flung haphazardly across his shoulders, and his book bag dangled by only one strap, a bit of last minute homework protruding from a hurriedly closed zipper. "Aren't you just a tad heavier this morning," the veteran pilot remarked._

"_Uh…" Fox paused nervously. "Yeah, I guess I ate another bowl of cereal didn't I? Well, gotta catch the bus—"_

"_Fox." James's voice wasn't angry, but its tone commanded obedience. Bus or no bus, the younger McCloud stopped dead in his tracks, looking down at his sneakers._

"_Yes sir."_

"_I noticed something was missing from my uniform this morning," said James. "You wouldn't happen to know where it is would you?"_

_Fox raised his head to look at his father. "Yes sir." He reached into his pocket and placed the gold pin on the table in front of him._

_James sighed softly. "Fox, I know I sometimes let you wear my wings around the house, but you're not to take them to school with you. You've already been told more than once."_

"_I know." The kit's ears drooped sideways. "But Dad, I'm not hurting anything right? Chris wears his dad's watch all the time, and these are way better than a watch!"_

"_I'm glad you see it that way." James mused for a moment, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was 0708. There was still time. "Sit down Junior," he said, motioning to the empty chair across the kitchen table._

_Fox obeyed, dropping his load with a dull thump next to his seat._

_James undid the band on his wrist chronometer and slipped off the timepiece, placing it next to the golden eagle. It was a simple model, containing a 2D display, navigation unit, smart credit chip, and short-range comm. system. One could easily be purchased from a drugstore for ten to twenty sanpon. "Fox, what makes these wings special to you," the elder McCloud inquired. "Why do you wear them?"_

_Fox thought for a moment. "Because you wear them. You're a star fighter pilot, and I'm gonna be one too someday." He grinned. "All pilots wear their wings."_

_James shook his head. "Not these wings Junior. These wings are very special." He drank another swallow of lukewarm coffee, remembering how hard he had worked for that small piece of metal. "Most ordinary people wear watches, much like yours, mine, and even Chris's dad's. I'd say almost everyone in the system has one or two. Do you remember how many people live in our star system?"_

"_Close to thirty billion," Fox answered. "I think. We did planet populations in social studies last year."_

"_Thirty billion," James repeated. "That's a really big number isn't it? I'd say that makes watches pretty common." He scratched his chin. "Here's a tougher one. How many pilots are in the Cornerian Defense Forces?"_

"_Uhhhhmmm…" Fox's eyes rolled up as his mind searched desperately for an answer. "A million?"_

"_Closer to three hundred thousand," James corrected him. "Just a drop in the bucket comparatively speaking, and the vast majority aren't star fighter pilots."_

"_They aren't?" Fox blinked, tilting his head slightly._

"_No, they aren't," said James. "Most are assigned to planetary defense squadrons. They fly shorter-range craft, receive less training, and you rarely see them doing anything but flying combat air patrol over their bases. They wear smaller wings of silver." He picked up the golden eagle, turning it over in his palm thoughtfully. "The few pilots who wear the starburst insignia are carefully selected and sent to the academy at Cape Henderson. Once there, they are pushed to the absolute limits of mind and body. They attend classes six days a week, spend thousands upon thousands of hours in holosimulators, and thousands upon thousands more in real star fighters. Outside the cockpit, everyone receives small arms and hand-to-hand combat training, and they do a six-week survival course so they can stay alive if the unthinkable happens. Then, if they manage to make it through to the end, they are given a final test, flying against their own instructors in an impossible situation. Then, and only then do they receive a passing grade and the right to wear this on their uniforms."_

_The elder McCloud sighed, his tone becoming less severe as he looked deep into his son's eyes. "Fox, these wings are more than just a decoration. The right to wear the wings of a star fighter pilot is not bestowed lightly. It is not given, but earned by a great deal of toil, sweat, and blood. These wings are a badge of honor, a lasting testament to an academy graduate's strength, courage, and the content of his character. That is why we treasure them…why I treasure them."_

_Fox was silent as he struggled to come to grips with this knowledge. Head bowed, he fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, under his father's gaze. James scratched his chin, eyeing the kit for a long moment. Had he gotten through to him, or was it like describing the sea to a mountain hermit, who would never comprehend its seemingly infinite vastness unless he experienced it for himself? Of this, he could not be entirely certain. Finally, a light smile tugged at one corner of his muzzle. "I know this is a lot for you to take in," he admitted. "Maybe you're too young to understand it all now, but someday…someday when you've been through hell and high water, earned wings of your own, and you stand among your brothers and sisters on the review ground with those wings pinned to your chest…then you will understand."_

"You were right Dad," Fox murmured as he stared at the bottom of the empty tin mug. "I sure as hell understand."

"H-hey, what's the big idea?"

A stuttering, high-pitched voice rose in protest from the opposite end of the canteen, swiveling the vulpine's left ear. Frowning, he turned in search of its owner, his gaze falling on a group of burly canines in a dark corner. They were clustered around a small table, towering over its single nervous occupant, a short, squat figure of a frog wearing a red baseball cap and a dingy coat covered with oil stains.

"Just what I don't need tonight," Mike groaned. "Nick's boys causing trouble at my bar."

"Nick's boys," asked Fox.

"Them three," Mike nodded in disgust. "They're a handful all right…tramping into my place like they own it. They'd pick a fight with you if you even looked at 'em sideways…buncha no good delinquents."

"Charming," the pilot muttered dryly as the meanest of the three swaggered over to stand behind the frightened amphibian.

"Oh I'm sorry froggy," the Doberman leered, his expression anything but apologetic. "Don't mean to be…rude or anything." The exaggerated theatrics elicited an immediate fit of laughter from his two cronies. "But we have ourselves a little problem here…"

"Y-you do?"

"Yeah, you see," the canine gripped the back of the wooden chair, "you're in MY seat."

"B-but I got here f-first," the lone customer protested, glancing to the numerous empty places all around him. "What about over there? That table looks nice—"

"I didn't ask about THAT table," Nick growled dangerously, cutting him short. "Me and my boys want to sit HERE."

Fox exhaled sharply, brows creasing as he observed the rapidly escalating tension in the back of the room. Of course, it was none of his business, but if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was watching a someone harass or bully another. Besides, there were three of them, and Mike was obviously well past his prime. It was doubtful the elderly bartender alone could keep the situation under control. Sliding off his stool, he rose and made his way toward the commotion, stopping at an empty table nearby. "Hey you," he called out, addressing the lead ruffian. "You heard the frog. I believe these seats are open," he said, gesturing to the nearest empty chair.

"And who are you, his mother," jeered one of the Doberman's posse. The other gangsters burst out laughing, but their leader was far from amused. Forgetting all about his previous quarrel, he whirled around and advanced to stand so close that his nose nearly touched the fighter pilot's muzzle. The stench of old tobacco smoke and cheap liquor was nearly overpowering.

"I ain't talking to you smartass," the scruffy canine growled. "This is between him and us. Now you just keep out of this, and maybe I won't knock your teeth out." With a dismissive wave of his hand, he began to turn away.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Fox replied evenly, refusing to be intimidated. "But I believe the rules around here are first come, first served. You'll just have to sit somewhere else."

"Is that so." Nick cracked his knuckles. "In that case, I think I'll start with your ass!"

Fox saw the swing coming. The ruffian's anger and overconfidence signaled his intentions well in advance. Ducking it easily, he caught the Doberman's arm at its greatest extent, and in a single, fluid motion spun him forcefully into an elbow lock, facedown on the nearby table.

"Oooh, temper, temper," chided Fox. "No need to get so worked up over this. That seat is taken; this one is free. It's that simple."

"You little shitfaced—AARGH," Nick protested, flailing as the vulpine increased the pressure on his joints ever so slightly.

"No," Fox asked, maintaining the same infuriating calm. "Well, I guess if none of these other seats will work, you'll just have to find another watering hole."

"Let me go, or I'll kill you," threatened Nick.

"No you won't," countered Fox. "Not if you know what's good for that arm of yours. Now, you can start by telling those two to leave," he said, nodding toward the other thugs, who seemed ready to leap to their leader's defense at any second. He'd have to play this just right.

Nick snarled, making another futile attempt to break free of the vulpine's hold. Another jolt of pain however, convinced him to nod his assent. "Spike, Tony…you guys beat it…"

"No way boss!" Tony protested. "This guy ain't nothin'—"

"Not now!" Nick cut him off, grinding his teeth. "You want him to rip my fucking arm off! Just get outta here!"

The two ruffians looked at each other, then back at Nick. Grudgingly they took their leave, giving both Fox and their intended victim several menacing glances before disappearing out the front door.

"Nice," Fox nodded. That evened things up nicely. "Next, you will promise to let my friend here sit wherever the hell he pleases, and you won't give him any more trouble. Do we understand each other?"

"You can shove it up your a—AARGH—okay, okay…I won't give him no trouble."

"You promise?"

"I PROMISE!"

"Good," Fox grinned, releasing Nick abruptly with a swift kick in the rear. "Glad we were able to discuss this like two civilized adults."

Nick glowered at the combat pilot as he regained his feet. "This ain't over asswipe," he hissed. "Me and my boys are gonna remember this! Next time I see your punk ass around here, I'm gonna beat the living shit out of you! As for you froggy," he snarled, turning to the trembling frog. "You got REAL lucky this time!" With that, he tramped after his comrades, slamming the front door so hard that the entire bar shook.

"I look forward to it," Fox called after him as a parting shot. The sound of a rattling mug however, drew his attention back to the North Star's only other patron, who had apparently decided it was safer to take refuge beneath the hotly contested table. "You okay," he asked, sliding into the unoccupied seat across from the stranger.

"A-are they g-gone?" A pair of widely set eyes cautiously peered over the opposite edge, darting quickly in all directions.

"Yeah, they're gone," Fox replied. "For the moment at least."

"Whew! Thanks a lot," the amphibian croaked, emerging the rest of the way. "I thought I was done for!"

"And I thought I was gonna have a fight on my hands," Mike added, appearing over Fox's shoulder. "I've never seen anyone stand up to Nick alone and walk away from it in one piece. You handled that well son."

"Thanks," Fox smiled.

"On the house," Mike beamed, setting another mug of the odd brown liquid in front of the young pilot. "I owe you big for this one."

Fox shook his head, reaching for the credit chip in his shirt pocket. "Nah, you don't owe me anything. Any flyboy in my shoes would have the same—"

Mike held up one hand in refusal. "This one's my treat."

"Are you sure," asked Fox. Whatever was in that brown bottle wasn't listed with the usual drinks. Undoubtedly it was something special, and he felt a little guilty accepting another free portion.

"I'm positive," Mike insisted. "Enjoy it son. You've earned it!"

"Well, okay," Fox grinned, raising his cup to the bartender. "Thanks."

"No problem!"

"What exactly _is_ this stuff," Fox wondered again as he bore the spirit's fiery sting with a grimace. Even Falco couldn't deny its potency, had he been here. He would definitely have to drink this second mug more slowly.

"Hey, wait a second," the stranger piped in his strange, high-pitched tones. "I've seen you somewhere before. Aren't you the guy they picked to do the final shakedown for the Arwing prototype?"

"Yeah," Fox nodded, arching a brow in surprise. He couldn't quite place the portly frog sitting across the table. "Have we met?"

"Check under your wings more often," the stranger laughed. "It takes a lot of work to keep that baby in top condition! My name's Slippy Toad, but you can just call me Slippy."

"Slippy huh?" Fox nodded, shaking the mechanic's extended hand. "Nice name."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 

"All right kids, time for you to head on home," Mike called as he dried and put away the final empty glass. "It's past your bedtime."

"Aw, c'mon Dad…just five more minutes. I'm not sleepy a'tall," Fox drawled, rising to his feet with an uncharacteristic snicker. "I'm notta kid anymore ya know!" Funny…the usually dim interior of the cantina seemed much too bright all of a sudden, and the floor felt a lot less solid under his feet as he ambled toward the register, his newfound amphibian companion in tow. He fumbled for his credit chip, only to discover his shirt pocket was empty. What the hell? Oh yeah…he'd left it on the table. Grinning sheepishly, he retraced his steps with the slightest bit of unsteadiness in his gait. Yep…there was no doubt about it. He'd had too much to drink, and while his senses were considerably dulled as a result, it was more so his impaired judgment that presented a problem…both to himself and the rest of the world.

Mike frowned, watching the young pilot return to the bar. Taking the chip from his customer's extended hand, he scanned it quickly before leveling a hard glance at the unnaturally cheerful vulpine. "You sure you'll be all right getting back," he asked. "Your friend looks okay, but you sir, are drunk, and it's partly my fault. I should have pulled the plug on you a long time ago."

Fox laughed, staring back at Mike through clouded eyes. "Will I be all right? Will I be _all right_? I fly star fighters for a livin'! Ya think I can't handle a twenty minute walk old man?" Honestly, he'd never heard something so ridiculous in his entire life. Sure he'd overdone it, but that didn't mean he couldn't walk straight…enough.

"I'm sure you can," Mike said unsmilingly, "when you're sober. I'd call a taxi, but there aren't any in these parts."

"I toldja I'm fine," Fox protested. "Don't worry 'bout it…I gotta straight shot back t'base and a friend with me t'boot," he said, draping an arm around Slippy, who nearly lost his balance under the unexpected weight. "What could happ'n?"

"A lot could happen," the Labrador replied. "I'd walk you two back myself, but I have to take care of something tonight. You be careful out there."

"We will," Slippy replied, glancing uneasily at Fox, who by this time had pushed open the screen door and had rambled into the street in another fit of drunken laughter. "Don't worry sir…I'll make sure we get home."

"See that you do," Mike nodded. "This shouldn't have happened…not on my watch at least." Reaching beneath the bar, he quickly located a hypodermic dispenser unit and an antidote package. "You give him a shot of this if he gets unmanageable," he said. "But be there to give him a hand. It'll hit like a ton of bricks when he comes back down."

"Hey slowpoke, what's takin' ya so long," Fox called, beckoning with one arm. "Let's go!" Why was everything so funny all of a sudden? He began to chuckle again, feeling silly, but at the same time he couldn't have cared less. Flushed and feeling warm all over, he undid the top few buttons of his collar as his mind swam in a turbulent sea of giddiness. He glanced at his watch blearily, noting that it was 2317 hours. That gave him...oh damn, what was sixty minus seventeen again? Sixty minus seventeen…sixty minus seventeen…why wouldn't his brain work! Ah, it wasn't important anyway. They'd have plenty of time to walk back up the hill to the base before everything was locked down for the night. As to how he was going to clear the checkpoints in his state of intoxication…well, he hadn't thought that far ahead yet.

"Sorry about that Fox," Slippy piped, hurrying down the stairs. "I'm ready whenever you are."

"I was born ready," declared Fox, laughing as he started off on the gently sloping, deserted street. Home was just over the hill, the lights of the airfield giving the eastern sky a faint glow, almost like the first hints of dawn. His boots thudded dully on the pavement, but despite his outward appearance, and the fact that he should have been completely exhausted after a full day of maneuvering trials with no real food, he somehow didn't mind the hike all that much. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was the alcohol. He couldn't be sure. "Hey Slippy," he said, glancing to the frog. "What were ya talkin' 'bout with Mike back there?"

"Oh nothing," Slippy replied. "He just gave me something for you if the alcohol was too much to handle. You want some?"

"Hell naw!" Fox growled, shoving the hypo away. "What is this, a doctor's office? How many times do I have t'say it…I'm fine!"

"Honestly Fox, I hate to admit it…but you're not fine," said Slippy. "That was some pretty powerful stuff you were drinking, and I don't claim to know you well, but your personality has really changed in just a couple of hours."

"Yeah," Fox asked, stopping and swaying ever so slightly. "How's that?"

"You're laughing one minute, angry the next, confused, and then back to laughing again." Slippy sighed. "I can't predict what you'll do next. Maybe it's because—"

"Mebbe it's because ya just don't know me very well," interrupted Fox. "Look, if you don't wanna walk with me, that's fine! I can get home myself okay? If I need yer help, I'll ask for it." With that, he turned about and resumed climbing the hill at a brisk pace.

"N-no, wait a s-sec," Slippy protested. "I..." He glanced nervously behind him before scurrying after Fox as fast as he could.

**---**

"Fox, are you _sure_ this the way back," Slippy asked. "The base is _that_ way."

"'Course I'm sure," Fox replied. "This is a shortcut."

"I don't know," Slippy croaked, eyeing the graffiti covered brick walls of the dark alleyway. "This place gives me the creeps. Do you know where we are?"

"Sure," Fox smirked. "We're...right here." Was this a dead end? He could have sworn he had taken that left turn awhile back…but if that was the case, why was he standing face-to-face with the back of an unfamiliar, abandoned building, its third story windows long since shattered by vandals. It was definitely not the place for any sane, law-abiding individual to be wandering about in the middle of the night.

"Ohhhhh," Slippy groaned. "I told you this wasn't a good idea! We should go back."

"Nah, wait just a second," Fox said, rubbing his eyes and stifling a hiccup. "I can figure this out. Lemme think for a minute." He tried to get his bearings, searching his foggy brain for answers, but he could find none. His neurons simply refused to work properly. How could anyone get lost in this one-horse town? "Gaaaaaah," he yelled, placing his hands over his head and yanking great handfuls of fur in exasperation. "I am so drunk!" Could he really be the same guy who set a new orienteering record as a first year cadet back at the academy?

"So you finally admit it huh," Slippy sighed. "Come on…let's get back to the main road. All right?"

"Huh," Fox blinked, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it. "What were we talkin' 'bout?"

"I said, let's go home!" Slippy repeated, tugging at the vulpine's sleeve.

"You ain't going nowhere," came a surly, all too familiar voice from behind. Stepping out of the shadows, his silhouette dimly visible against the night sky, was Nick…and he wasn't alone. Flanked by Spike, Tony, and two new thugs, he and his men were blocking off the alley entrance, the only possible means of escape. "Well, well, well," he grinned, swaggering toward the two hapless individuals, cornered with their backs to the wall. "What have we here? A fox…and his bodyguard."

"N-n-now j-just a m-m-minute," Slippy stammered, hastily scooting behind Fox. "We d-d-didn't do any-anything w-wrong. P-p-please—"

"Shaddup Froggy," Nick snapped. "You ain't the one I want." Cracking his knuckles, he glared at the drunken fighter pilot. "But you asshole…you and I have some unfinished business."

"Oh yeah," Fox snorted, stumbling forward to stand toe-to-toe with the gangster. "Ya wanna piece of me!" Boy was this guy asking for it! Asshole? Calling him an asshole! He had some nerve with big talk like that…and bringing a ragtag bunch of morons for backup? He should deck the guy on principle! "Ya wanna fight or somethin'!"

"F-f-fox," Slippy gulped, visibly shaking. "There are f-f-five of them this t-time. W-we c-c-can't win."

"And what if I do," Nick sneered. "You wouldn't last a minute against me pretty boy…so how's about we make a deal. You and the frog hand over your credit chips, and we'll forget this whole thing ever happened…"

"Seems a'ight," Fox replied, voice heavy with sarcasm. "But I got a better one…you and ya boys get the hell outta my way, and I won't break yer jaw!"

Nick ground his teeth. "This ain't gonna be like last time you little shit! Hand over those chips, or you can spend the next six months breathing through a tube!"

Slippy cringed, tugging on the vulpine's sleeve. "F-Fox! We s-s-should l-listen t-t-to him. Y-y-you c-c-can't beat th-them all!"

"Sure I can," said Fox, snatching away his arm. "Trust me…"

"Oooh, trust me," Nick repeated in a mocking, high-pitched falsetto. "C'mon pretty boy…take your best shot! I'll have you running home to your daddy! Why dontcha get Daddy to teach ya howta fight huh? You're all talk! You ain't got the balls t—"

It happened so suddenly that even Fox found himself taken aback. By the time he realized what was happening, his fist had already completed its arc, and Nick was sprawled on his back, reeling from the force of the blow. There was a moment of shocked silence as the gang leader struggled to his feet, eyes blazing with murderous intent. "By the time I'm finished with you," the Doberman snarled, "you be begging me to put an end to your suffering. Get him boys!"

"Bring it!" Fox taunted, beckoning provocatively with his right hand. "Who's next?" With a howl of rage that sent Slippy diving behind a dumpster for cover, the four thugs charged forward, eager to avenge their injured boss. Fox waited. As Spike closed to tackle him to the ground, he stepped aside, delivering a sharp kick to the back of the enemy's knee, causing him to land hard on the concrete. Wasting no time, he caught the punch of another thug, though as he pivoted and threw the attacker over one shoulder, he became aware that his form was much, much sloppier that usual. He felt strangely…off balance. It was then that Tony's fist caught him squarely in the jaw, blanking out his vision in a burst of white light and a crashing wave of pain as he staggered backward. Gritting his teeth, he managed to shake it off, his left arm darting upward to block a follow-up jab…just barely in time! Aiming for the fourth attacker, his left boot shot out, missing completely. What was wrong with him? Apparently the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream was affecting his fighting ability as well, severely retarding his usually smooth hand-to-hand skills and his ability to read his opponents' movements. Worst of all, he knew Slippy was right. Deep inside, a small voice of reason was struggling to be heard, screaming at him to listen…to realize he was outnumbered five-to-one, that he had jumped into this brawl without a second thought, that he could only keep this up for so long, and that eventually they would wear him down. Then he would be theirs! He should retreat now! But then again, that small voice of reason was drowning in a torrent of liquor, swept beneath the waves again and again as louder, more insistent voices goaded him to fight…to teach these no-good low-lives a lesson in manners.

"Haaaaaaagh!"

Fox whirled around, grunting as another punch hit home, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Swallowing hard, he managed to duck another blow, sinking his own knuckles into the canine's stomach, adding a roundhouse elbow and a sharp jab into his enemy's jaw. Gasping for breath, he cursed himself internally for taking the hit. If he were in top form, he wouldn't have been suckered by such a clumsy strike in the first place! After all, he was a soldier, and these were common street punks. A powerful snap kick felled a resurgent Nick, a leopard's heel to the face halted another run by Spike, and after narrowly dodging a beer bottle thrown by Tony, he found he had outmaneuvered the thugs by sheer luck, ending up with a clear shot at the exit.

"Fox!" Slippy shouted, emerging from his hiding place. "We're in the clear! Let's run for it!"

"Run? Hell naw!" Fox scoffed, wiping away some blood with his forearm as the bandits regrouped around their leader. "These bastards pick'd a fight with us! You think I'm gonna let 'em off that easy?"

"Fox," Slippy pleaded. "Get a grip already! We're dead meat if we stay any longer! Let's go while we still can!"

"Dunno what yer talkin' 'bout," the pilot slurred, panting as he beckoned the infuriated gangsters once again. "This party's just gettin' started!"

"You're hurt!"

"I'm just fine," Fox declared. "Ya wanna run…go right ahead! I'm not stoppin' ya!"

"I'M GONNA KILL HIM!" Nick bellowed, charging forward.

Fox met him head-on, blocking one punch, then another, and another! The thug was admittedly a tough opponent, but his attacks relied solely on brute force, lacking any semblance of thought and minimal skill. Catching an opening in the Doberman's guard, he nailed his opponent with a powerful uppercut and finished with a sweep to the left knee. "Ya really do stink—augh," he grimaced as Tony cut-off in mid-sentence. "Hurgh!" He coughed as Spike nailed him in the gut.

"I'm sorry Fox," Slippy sighed, pulling the hypo from his pocket. "But this is for your own good. If this is the only way you'll listen to reason…" he trailed off. After watching Fox narrowly bring his attackers' new offensive to a halt with a flurry of well-placed punches, kicks, and throws, the mechanic started forward, aiming for the back of the vulpine's neck.

"Is that all," Fox gasped, feeling worn out, but not giving a damn. "And ya call yourselves a gang?" He laughed, tasting a trickle of warm, salty blood as it dripped from his muzzle onto his tongue. He never saw Slippy coming. Abruptly something cold and metallic pressed against his throat, followed by a sharp hiss. "What the—" He swayed, nearly losing his balance as the medicine took effect, his vision blacking out for several seconds. "What's…happening?" It was as if his entire body had turned to lead. He felt heavy, oh so heavy, and his head ached, the pain throbbing with every heartbeat like a sledgehammer.

It was like a hangover, with all the agony compressed into an intense few moments. Unfortunately, it was all the thugs needed. Sensing Fox's moment of vulnerability, they were upon him in the blink of an eye. By the time his head had cleared, he found himself held fast by Spike and the two junior members of the gang, immobile and against the side of the alley. "Well, how do you like it now," the voice of reason scolded him, freed at last from the shackles of intoxication. "You're in over your head now. Stupid! So stupid!" He struggled to free himself, but his struggles were in vain, as Nick, nursing a cracked jawbone, clenched his fists in rage.

"I'm going to enjoy watching you plead for mercy," the gangster snickered. "But I doubt I'll be listening."

Fox saw the Doberman's fist coming, but this time, he could do nothing about it. Setting his jaw, he emptied his lungs and braced for the punch. It didn't help much. With all the fury behind it, the guy could have almost punched through durasteel. "Guuuh!" He winced, absorbing the full force of the blow to his gut.

"This is for my busted arm asswipe!" Tony spat as he followed his boss, dealing Fox another crushing blow. Struggling to get his breath, he strained against his captors.

"Save some for us boss," Spike grinned, his iron grip tight around the pilot's boots.

"You'll get yer turn," Nick smiled sadistically. "There's plenty of fun for everybody!"

"Errrgh! Gaaah! Uuuoggh!" Fox squeezed his eyes shut as the thugs continued to use him as their punching bag, slugging him to their hearts' content. If only he could last long enough…maybe until they switched off…perhaps he could struggle free? But he doubted he would have any strength left by then.

"HAH-HAH-HAH," Nick roared with laughter. "Where's your big talk now, eh foxie? What was that again? 'This party's just gettin' started?' Hah! It certainly is for me!"

"Guhaaaagh!" Fox coughed, the canines' fists striking home again and again. Where in the world was Slippy? Slippy? Naturally the vulpine hadn't expected much help from him from the beginning, but if he was free, perhaps he could get to the police before….before…

"So, how does it feel pretty boy," Nick leered, leaning in as he gripped Fox's muzzle roughly. "Nobody crosses me and gets away with it. You made a big mistake when you stuck up for that spineless—GUH!" The canine suddenly collapsed as something exploded over his head in a shower of brown glass. Almost simultaneously, Tony was joining him, out cold. Behind them stood Slippy, holding the necks of two broken beer bottles, looking almost as dumbfounded as the three gangsters who still held onto Fox.

"Wow, it actually worked," the amphibian exclaimed.

"You little bastard!"

Fox felt Spike's hold loosen as he started for Slippy. Summoning what was left of his strength, he managed to slam a boot into the ribs of the thug who was pinning his right arm. As he felt it come free, he hurled a punch into the thug on his left. Staggering forward, he made for Spike, who was almost within attacking range of the practically defenseless mechanic, but he was hurting very badly at this point, and Spike, hearing the cries of his companions, whirled around to face the fighter pilot.

Fox groaned internally, forced to defend himself again. Spike's back was to Slippy. With the exception of the beer bottles, the gangster had obviously written him off as nothing more than a liability in a fistfight. If only the mechanic would do something now, while two of the thugs lay unconscious, and the other two were still recovering from his unexpected counterattack, they might be able to make a break for the main road.

"Oh no ya don't!" Spike growled. He struck quickly. Fox managed to block his first punch with the back of his forearm, but the second caught him on the side of the head, and he was nearly down for the count, falling to his knees. It wasn't the alcohol anymore. By now the medication had reacted with every stray molecule his liver had failed to metabolize, but he had taken quite a beating in the meantime and was all but spent.

"Get up!" Spike demanded. "We ain't done yet!" He gripped Fox by the lapels, hauling him back to his feet as he brought his fist back to strike another blow. However, just as he was about to nail the vulpine between the eyes, his grip loosened with a howl of pain. Amazingly, Slippy had worked up enough courage to strike…right in the canine's already injured knee! "Son of a bitch!" The gangster cursed, rolling onto his back with his feet in the air, cradling his busted leg. That was three down…two to go.

Fox wobbled and dropped to the ground once more, closing his eyes. He had lost the alcohol's retarding effects on his brain, and while he felt pain searing through every muscle in his body, he bore it gladly. A more potent weapon was once again at his disposal…guile, and he needed more than a little to deal with the remaining two thugs, who were in far better shape despite their own bumps and bruises.

"Don't just stand there," Spike bawled to the remaining two bandits. "Get 'em for me!"

Fox heard the dogs advancing toward him. Eyes still closed, he fought to keep his ears absolutely still, despite their instinctive desire to prick and swivel to better hear the enemy's approach. "Don't mind me," he thought, "I'm out cold." He was scraping the bottom of the barrel, asking his battered body for one final spurt of energy. He could only hope that it would be enough.

"On your feet," yelled one of the bandits, yanking the pilot off the pavement. "C'mon!"

"That's right," Fox said to himself. "I'm completely defenseless. Come a little closer…good boy."

"Hey Spike," the thug frowned, staring at the vulpine carefully. "This guy…looks like it's lights out for him."

"Do I hafta spell out _everything_ for you dimwits," Spike howled. "You…finish off that frog, and you, make sure that one wakes up with a headache…IF he wakes up!"

"Y-y-you s-sure we c-c-c-can't t-talk ab-b-bout t-this," Slippy stuttered, backpedaling toward the mouth of the alley.

"C'mere ya pansy," the other gangster chortled, clutching his side. "Without him to protect ya, you're nothin'!"

"I'm gonna have to time this just right if I don't want to sneeze my brain out of my nose," Fox thought, reaching out as much as he could with his other senses while keeping his eyes closed and his face expressionless. He felt the guy holding him getting ready to bash in his muzzle from the shifting of his weight, and the slight increase in pressure of the gripping fist against his chest. It was now or never. "HUAAAH!" A kiyai tore from his lungs as his eyes flew open and he aimed his boot for the back of the enemy's right knee, onto which most of his weight had been shifted. It struck true! Before the surprised canine knew what was happening, he was prone with Fox's other boot quickly robbing him of consciousness.

"What the—" the other gangster started.

"Think fast!" Fox called as he reached into his pocked and sent his credit chip arcing toward the enemy. Being greedy, his opponent instantly forgot all else, his gaze transfixed on the silver wafer as it tumbled end over end back toward the earth—his mistake. Pivoting sharply, the pilot shifted his weight back onto his left leg and swung the other in a high roundhouse, sending his opponent roughly into the unyielding sidewall of the alley. He wouldn't be waking up for awhile.

"Uuuogh!" Fox cried out, sinking to his knees with his hands to his stomach. He felt awful…like every bone and sinew had been pulled through a meat grinder. Blood continued to flow freely from various cuts all over his body, tangling his fur in dirty, matted clumps. What an ending this was to the worst day of his life…thus far at least.

"Fox!" Slippy dashed over as fast as his short legs would carry him. Fortunately, he managed to catch the vulpine before he landed face first on the concrete, his large eyes wide with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Do I look like I'm all right," Fox chuckled dryly, his voice rough, but his speech clear once more. "I'll live," he nodded after a moment. "But I think I'd better get patched up first thing in the morning when the medics are on duty."

"That's a good idea," agreed Slippy. "Let's get back to base while we can manage."

"Yeah." Fox grimaced, fighting a fresh wave of pain as he somehow dragged himself back onto his feet. "Hey Slip," he said, sucking in a sharp breath as he tried out his legs. "I'm sorry to do this, but I'm gonna need your help to get back."

"Sure thing," the mechanic nodded. "After all, you saved my skin!" Reaching down, he snagged Fox's credit chip from its resting place on the pavement and moved to assist the pilot.

"Maybe," said Fox. "But I also got us into a tight spot with this 'shortcut.'" Placing his left arm over Slippy for support, he gasped as the frog almost dropped him. Oh well. It seemed he'd have to shoulder most of his own weight after all. Ignoring Spike's parting curses and cries of agony, the two managed to slowly but surely make their way back to the street, one step at a time, and down the sidewalk toward the first of many checkpoints on the base perimeter.

"Slippy?"

"Yeah?"

"I really should have listened to you." The vulpine sighed. "I've never been afraid of a fight…never will be. But I usually pick 'em a lot better than that, and I'm sorry you had to get dragged into it."

"Fox…"

"I had a rotten day from the moment I got out of bed," the fighter pilot continued. "Heh…I guess it took getting plastered and having the shit beaten out of me to figure out just how bad I really felt." He shook his head, wincing as they picked up the pace a bit in a crosswalk, the flashing signal warning them that they had only a few seconds left to reach the other side. "But that doesn't excuse what I did at the canteen tonight or picking a fight with those thugs."

"Well," Slippy said, pausing as they regained the sidewalk. "They had it in for us anyway. If it wasn't then, it might have happened sooner or later. Maybe now they'll think we're more trouble than we're worth and just leave us alone." The mechanic reached into his pocket, fingering the empty hypodermic dispenser. "If anyone needs to apologize, it's me. If I hadn't given you this when I did, they wouldn't have pounded you like that."

"If you hadn't given it to me, I would have kept fighting until I was spent, and the result would have been mostly the same," countered Fox. "I may have saved your neck, but you saved mine too." He managed a weak smile, "That's what friends do…even those who've just met."

"Thanks Fox," Slippy beamed as they resumed walking once more. "I really needed that. To tell you the truth, until tonight…I didn't have any friends."

"Get outta here," Fox blinked. "Everyone's got a friend somewhere."

"I'm serious," said Slippy. "I have no hobbies besides my work, I can't get a date to save my life, and I'm more than a little clumsy."

"You also know more about servicing an Arwing than I ever will…even if I'm the one flying it," replied Fox. "Nobody's perfect. Just give it some time…you'll make more friends before too long. I'm sure of it."

"I hope so," said Slippy. "I sure don't want to go back to the North Star all by myself anymore."

"We'll go together next time," Fox promised. "I wouldn't mind the company. Oh yeah, and despite what happened tonight, I want you to know I don't make it a habit of drowning my troubles in drink. All that gets you is a five-alarm hangover and an empty pocket when you wake up in the morning. Doesn't solve a damn thing." He was pretty sure he'd barely have enough left on his credit chip to eat properly until Friday, and of course, his problems remained. He just had to figure out how he was going to deal with them. It wasn't going to be easy, but then again, that wasn't why he was wearing this uniform.

"No, it doesn't," Slippy agreed. "But if you ask me, a good night's sleep would help a lot."

"Yeah," Fox nodded. "You can say that again." He was more than eager to put this all behind him, and start over again with the rising sun. Things would look better tomorrow. He sighed and set his mind at ease, drawing some comfort from the fact that he was not the only one. Everyone had days like this…even Captain Kaminski.

**---**

"_What_ happened to _you_?" Nurse Sanada frowned, eyes fixed on her scanner as she waved its sensor baton back and forth over the injured pilot on the diagnostic bed.

"I'd rather not talk about it," replied Fox.

"Let me guess…a stray gorbal jumped out of the bushes and clawed your face, you lost your footing, rolled down a hill, landed hard on your stomach, cracked your jaw on the asphalt, and got run over by a delivery boy on a hover bike" the vixen prodded.

"That's _exactly_ what happened," Fox grinned broadly. "Damn, you're good."

"I know," she smiled coyly. "On the other hand, maybe you were out drinking and had a little too much fun, eh flyboy?"

"Okay, you got me," Fox admitted. The likeliest explanation was also the most obvious.

"Mmm-hmm…thought so," Sanada chuckled. "You should know better than to try pulling one over on me. You're not the first case I've seen, and I have a feeling you won't be the last."

"Ah, then you must know just how to fix me up," Fox winked.

"Mmmaybe." The nurse studied her scanner. "You flyboys are all the same…always getting into trouble and leaving us to patch you up when it's over," she teased. "The good news is I can repair most of the damage, and I can give you 20 ccs of Ascetalproplylene for the pain, but I'll need you to keep your feet on the ground for at least twenty-four hours just to be on the safe side. You can get a release from the flight surgeon."

"Gotcha," said Fox.

"This may hurt a little," the medic cautioned, reaching for a deep tissue regenerator. "But it won't last long. Hold still…"

Fox nodded, bracing himself. A set of crosshairs appeared on his white-furred abdomen, accompanied by a severe cramping and burning sensation as the cells beneath the penetrating beam rapidly divided, knitting torn muscles and damaged tissues back together. He winced softly, bearing it in silence.

"So, you're not going to tell me how you got all these bruises," Sanada asked. "Not even a hint?"

"It's a long story," said Fox.

"It's not like you're going anywhere for a few minutes," observed the vixen.

Fox nodded. "I suppose not…but if we're going to hear a story, I'd much rather hear yours."

"Oh really?" Sanada chuckled. "Well then ensign, shall I start at the beginning…as far back as I can remember?"

"Maybe not that far back," said Fox. "How about…what made you decide to join the defense forces and practice medicine?"

"Well, that's a new one," the nurse remarked. "I guess part of it was looking after my little brothers while I was growing up. Mom and Dad were at work during the day, and they were always coming back home with a skinned knee or a bee sting or something for me to work on."

"I see," Fox nodded. It sounded a lot like him as a kit, always playing outdoors, always insatiably curious, and quite frequently paying for it later with a host of minor childhood injuries. "They must've kept you busy."

The vixen rolled her eyes. "You have no idea." However, a playful twinkle betrayed the fact that those memories weren't altogether unpleasant. "Then when I got into high school," she continued, "I was offered a scholarship by the defense ministry to pay for medical school…in exchange for a short tour of duty once I graduated, and here I am."

"Ah, so you're still serving it huh?" Fox asked.

"Nope," Sanada shook her head. "Expired not that long ago, but I intend to stay on for awhile, at least until I make full lieutenant. True, it'll be tougher than a civilian job, but I like a good challenge." She seemed quite pleased with herself. "Besides, it'll look great on my record if I ever do want to work in some municipal hospital later on."

"Your career must be very important to you," said Fox. Suddenly, his jade-green eyes took on a mischievous glint. "But somehow, I doubt your record is why you're still here."

"Oh?" That got her attention all right. "And why would that be ensign?"

"Well," Fox paused, as if to collect his thoughts. "Isn't it because you still enjoy patching up cuts and scrapes for boys who've had a little too much fun?" He grinned, quirking his brows playfully. "Aaaagh—"

"Whoops," Sanada smirked. "My finger must've slipped a tad…sorry about that."

"No problem," Fox replied, clearing his throat. Ri-i-ght, how could anyone slip with a targeting control that steady?

"Now, let me take a look at that jaw," said the vixen, reaching for a much smaller, higher precision instrument. "I'll need you to keep it as still as you can, okay?"

"You bet," replied Fox, sitting up straight and tall while she peered at the crack in the bone through a small eyepiece, working the narrow beam back and forth over the affected area. Unable to make conversation, the pilot allowed his eyes to wander over the confines of the relatively small room. However, he found little here to distract him…just a handful of cutaway diagrams of the body's inner workings, a recruitment poster or two for the medical corps, and an assortment of instruments stowed neatly in containers or on shelves until they were needed again. More often than not, he found his gaze settling on the pretty nurse in front of him, though he tried not to stare too much. Didn't want to make her uncomfortable while she was repairing that fissure.

"All right, you can relax now." Sanada nodded, folding the probe and putting it away. "Once the flight surgeon gives you a release form, you're free to go."

"So am I right?"

"Huh?" She tilted her head, ears flicking ever so slightly.

"You never answered my question," Fox said slyly. "Isn't that the real reason you're still here?"

Sanada opened her mouth to answer, but at the last moment she stopped herself, a strange smile tugging at her muzzle. "Like I said, you flyboys are all alike." With that, the vixen turned and headed off in search of her next patient.

Fox grinned, shaking his head as he slipped his shirt back over his shoulders, followed by his uniform top and his cap. Oh well…that question would have to remain unanswered for the moment. In the meantime, he had to pay a visit to the hangar.

**---**

"You're late!" Kaminski frowned, glancing at his watch as Fox strode through the heavy door onto the expansive metal floor of the cavernous room.

"Yes sir," replied Fox. "I'm sorry sir." It mattered not that he was less than a minute overdue, but he didn't feel like protesting now. The sooner they got down to business, the sooner it would be over, and he sure as hell didn't want to endure the husky's icy presence one minute longer than absolutely necessary.

"I'm sure you are," Kaminski sniffed. "Here," he said, holding a large pad out to the young airman. "These are the details of the final test flight tomorrow."

Fox took the panel from his CO's extended hand, tapping its surface as his eyes quickly skimmed over the briefing material. It was another set of maneuvering trials, minus weapons testing this time. Maybe the engineers had enough data to chew on, despite his "unsatisfactory" handling yesterday. It suddenly occurred to him that this would all look very shoddy on his record when he was up for reassignment, especially if Kaminski had anything to do with recommendations.

"G-diffuser system?" An unfamiliar word caught his eye. Standing out boldly from the rest of the page, it demanded his attention.

"Yes," the canine nodded. "It's being installed right now."

Fox peered over Kaminski's shoulder toward the middle of the room, noticing for the first time the odd piece of equipment secured in an antigrav harness beneath the Arwing prototype's belly. Surrounded by a dozen mechanics, it was gradually being lifted into its final resting position, partially obscured by two sets of open ventral hull plates.

"As the name implies, it works to counteract the effects of g-forces on a pilot's body during flight," the base commander explained. "That translates into tighter turns and quicker maneuvers that are otherwise unendurable, and unless I've been mislead, which I'm sure I haven't, that little contraption should generate almost three times the protection of the best g-suits we have available. Should be a comfortable ride, eh McCloud?"

Fox pricked his ears slightly. Did he detect a slightly condescending tone in the captain's voice?

"But that's no reason for you to get out of shape!" Kaminski barked. "With that extra cushioning in place, we're gonna be putting you through some very demanding maneuvers to see just how much stress you and that bird can handle! Be sure you memorize the flight plan," he said, his voice suddenly dropping off again. "Yesterday was tiring wasn't it? I'm not spending another twelve hours on that platform watching you screw around. You'll either do it right the first time, or you won't do it at all. There will be no second chances. Are we clear?"

"Yes sir," Fox enunciated crisply, his teeth showing visibly despite himself as he formed the words, practically biting them into existence. "We are perfectly clear."

"Excellent." The base commander returned his attention to the prototype, his stony visage difficult to read. "I'll expect you on the flight line no later than 0800 tomorrow morning. Dismissed."

Fox turned and gladly departed from his CO's presence, clutching the data pad in his left hand. However, despite his best efforts, Kaminski remained on his mind for the rest of the day, his words weighing so heavily that he felt the husky was still with him…even at the remotest corners of the base, where he sought some measure of solitude in which to go over the details of the run.

"You'll either do it right the first time, or you won't do it at all. There will be no second chances."

Again and again the captain's words echoed in his thoughts. No second chances. There would be no second chances. Worse was the fact that his CO's definition of "doing it right" was quite different from his own and frankly…rather extreme. It was not that he ever set low standards for himself or reveled in sloppiness, but…what was it going to take…short of an absolutely flawless performance?

"Damn," he cursed. Well, if it were a flawless performance or else…a flawless performance it would be.

**---**

Arise brave defenders, and heed the trumpet's call!

Arise brave defenders, and heed the trumpet's call!

To arms! To arms! For blessed Freedom, mother to us all!

Make haste brave defenders, and heed the trumpet's call! 

Fox groaned, eyes cracking open to the sound of the familiar morning call. Was it 0500 hours already? He hated everything about this march: its simplistic words, its repetitive melody, and most of all, the way it struck like a thunderclap from the loudspeakers with each and every sunrise, seizing his unwilling mind from its resting place and violently yanking, ripping, tearing it from the blissful depths of sleep. Well, there was no use in hiding from it. Morning had come, and like it or not, today was the day.

Drawing back the covers, he vaulted over the side of his bunk onto the cold, tile floor below, and almost immediately, his body began to run on autopilot. It knew the drill quite well. After the obligatory stretching of his stiff muscles, it was a cold shower, a quick grooming, brushing his teeth, donning his uniform, and heading to the mess hall for breakfast, just as he did every day. He rarely paid the routine any mind. After all, there was very little thought involved, but today it wasn't because he was still half asleep or stuck in a rut. On the contrary, he was wide-awake, thought intensely focused on the flight plan as he mentally rehearsed it again and again.

To the untrained eye, it would not have looked all that sophisticated: take off from Big Sky, climb into low orbit, perform a steep re-entry, and follow a series of sharp turns that would eventually lead back to base. The only real acrobatics came toward the end, about the time that he would be visible to Kaminski and his staff from the observation deck. He would have to be sure to not miss a single holographic targeting ring…no matter what.

After hurriedly swallowing his morning rations and allowing them to settle while he answered a pile of mail he had been neglecting over the last several days, he found himself standing in the deserted locker room, its rows of benches sitting unoccupied. The morning CAP had already taken off, and the group of trainees that had recently arrived from Cape Henderson wouldn't be on the flight line until sometime during early afternoon. For the moment, he had the place to himself…not that it really mattered one way or the other.

The sound of the metal locker clunking open echoed off the concrete walls as Fox reached inside, exchanging his duty uniform for four items: his jumpsuit, his parachute harness, his helmet, and his oxygen bottle. He ignored the unwieldy g-suit, leaving it on its hanger for perhaps the first time since he passed basic training at the academy. "Hope that g-diffuser works as advertised," he muttered as he did the zipper, feeling strangely light with only the gray-green flight suit pressing against his body, "Or I'm gonna miss you." To be sure, it was more comfortable at least, and there were no bulky air sacs to interfere with the motion of the control stick. He looked at his watch, noting that it was coming up on 0740. That gave him only about twenty minutes to go. He'd have to step on it if he was going to be ready on time.

**---**

"Sun Visor, this is Echo One," said Fox, struggling to keep his voice professionally neutral in spite of his growing impatience. "Requesting status update, over."

"Echo One, this is Sun Visor," the tower responded. "No changes. Stand by."

"You gotta be kidding!" Fox growled, making sure that his headset was safely muted before checking his watch once more. It was now 0827, and neither Kaminski, nor his lieutenants had appeared on the platform at the far end of the field. What was going on? Having long since disengaged the craft's ventral thrusters to avoid depleting their fuel supply, he sat impetuously at the end of the runway, waiting for clearance to take off as shimmering heat waves billowed from the idling engine's exhaust nozzle. "No later than 0800 huh," he grumbled. Well, no one was going to blame him for tardiness this time. He had been on time. It was his CO that was keeping them all waiting.

The morning sun grew brighter and brighter with each passing moment as it climbed above the horizon, soon eclipsing the Arwing's flashing landing lights. On the ground, everything around him reflected back Solar's brilliance. The trees, the broad concrete walls of buildings, everything was tinged with bright hues of scarlet. Fox sighed softly as a lone dragonfly paused above his canopy, hovering for a moment before alighting to peer curiously at him with its large, compound eyes. "At this rate, I'll have birds nesting here before too long," the vulpine muttered. Another several minutes ticked by…slowly, and still, there was no sign of Captain Kaminski.

At long last, when Fox was almost resigned to the possibility of the flight being cancelled, the door of the control tower swung open, and out stepped the base commander and the two flight officers, recognizable from their uniforms even at this distance. His watch read 0850 hours.

"Good morning ensign." The husky's voice sounded cheerful as it reached his headset. "So sorry for the little delay."

"Too cheerful," thought Fox as he re-enabled his mike. "No problem sir," his voice said of its own accord. As to what he truly thought, well…fortunately he wasn't stupid enough to disclose that to the rest of the world.

"Well then, let's get this show on the road," the husky quipped, lowering his eyepiece into place.

"Aye sir," said Fox, engaging his retro rockets once more. "Sun Visor, this is Echo One requesting clearance for takeoff, over."

"Echo One, this is Sun Visor," replied the control tower. "Permission granted. Altitude restrictions will be cancelled once you are clear of the runway."

"Roger." Fox gradually throttled up as the landing pads retracted into the Arwing's belly. The craft rapidly picked up speed as he followed the dashed white line below, careful to stay under fifty feet until he reached its end. Then, easing back on the stick, he climbed gently to a thousand feet, circling the area once while he got his bearings.

"Echo One, we have established a link with your onboard sensor array," came the voice of one of the lieutenants over the comm. "Receiving the telemetry now. We're ready whenever you are."

"Acknowledged," Fox nodded. "I'm bringing the g-diffuser system online." Tapping a series of commands into the console in front of him, he glanced over his shoulder, raising a brow as the control surfaces made several rapid, minute adjustments. For an instant, there was a slight drop in power as the inertial generator siphoned energy from the engine core. However, the hesitation lasted only a moment before levels stabilized, and the computer signaled that all was well.

"This is Echo One," he called to the observers on the ground. "All systems go. I am beginning my run now." Pulling back on the stick, his left arm opened the throttle as far as it would go. With a thunderous roar, the Arwing sharply accelerated, its nose pointing skyward as it trailed a long, blue flame of plasma exhaust. Yet, Fox discovered to his amazement that he hardly felt it at all. Ordinarily, such a swift climb to orbit would have been a significant physiological burden to bear, but aside from a bit of vibration, it was almost as if he was still in level flight. "Looks like it's working," he observed.

The air outside the cockpit grew thinner and thinner with each passing moment. Barely two minutes into his ascent, the protective veil of the atmosphere drew back like a curtain to reveal the dark vastness of space, filled with an innumerable multitude of stars. Cold and bright, they peered back at him from the heavens with unblinking stares, so close, and yet so far away. So much remained shrouded in mystery around those tiny points of light. For all their long history, the people of Lylat had rarely ventured far from the confines of their own star system, content to peer at their neighbors in the cosmos through space telescopes. Fox smiled wistfully. It would be quite an adventure to explore one of those distant stars one day, but that day would not be today. He was here for a single purpose, and a sharp tone from his instrument panel broke into his thoughts, warning him to be mindful of that purpose. He could not lose focus under any circumstances.

"Sun Visor, this is Echo One. I have reached an altitude of 2500 kilometers," he reported, glimpsing the first holographic nav ring up ahead through the heads up display integrated into the panels of the Arwing's canopy. "Beginning de-orbit sequence in five, four, three, two, one, mark!" He eased off the throttle, the nose beginning to pitch downward toward the great blue orb of Corneria as his maneuvering thrusters engaged, altering his course.

"Echo One, this is Sun Visor," came the voice of the tower. "Be advised that there will be a temporarily loss of communication with the ground during re-entry. Make sure you check in as soon as the interference clears."

"Copy Sun Visor," replied Fox, clearing the silver nav ring and moving on to the next. "Stand by." Faint tongues of flame were already beginning to form around the nose section as the craft brushed the upper atmosphere once again. They grew hotter, brighter, soon engulfing the Arwing on all sides and obscuring the comm. line within an incomprehensible haze of static. He frowned, having trouble making out the rings through the superheated gas until he was nearly on top of them, though fortunately, there was very little deviation from one ring to the next as of yet. He just had to maintain a steady descent until he made his turn for home. Like the surprisingly easy climb to orbit, it was proving to be quite a smooth ride indeed.

"Forty, forty-one, forty-two," the vulpine counted under his breath as he cleared each silver ellipse. It would not be much longer. Almost as suddenly as it had begun, the firestorm came to an end. The fighter had slowed considerably, but had it not been for the nav rings and his instruments, he could have sworn he was going faster…now that his eyes had the high clouds and the terrain far below as visual references. He could see the gleam of the Western Ocean in the distance as the sunlight reflected off the waves, a testament to the ground he had covered in those few short minutes of orbital flight.

"Sun Visor, this is Echo One," he hailed the base. "Comms check…comms check…over."

"Receiving you loud and clear Echo One," the tower replied. "You're coming up on the first turn."

"I see it," Fox nodded. The two nav rings ahead of him were set almost at right angles, testing the limits of the Arwing's capability, and disturbingly similar to Run Ninety-Six from just the other day. Yep…this was Kaminski's work all right.

"Here's where the fun begins," he muttered as he rolled onto his port wing and banked sharply to the left, drawing sharp contrails with its trailing edge and bracing himself involuntarily…but this time he need not have bothered. His vision did not fade to shades of gray. Instead, clear-headed and awake, he guided the Arwing neatly through the pair of rings, feeling only a modest push against the back of his seat. Rolling onto the starboard wing to take a second pair proved just as easy…a third just as painless. It was astounding…the power of this g-diffuser! How did it work? The g-suit he could understand—always squeezing him like a tube of toothpaste to keep blood flowing to his brain. How could a couple of generators and a control unit nullify inertia so effectively? One thing was certain…he would have plenty of questions for Slippy when he got out of debriefing.

A mountain range faded into view on the southern horizon, the bare rock of the rugged peaks replacing the large fields of grain and the gently rolling hills that had previously marked his course. That meant he had crossed back into Lutanian territory. The base would only be a few minutes to the west, and any second now, his CO's all seeing eyes would be upon him, mercilessly picking apart his maneuvers, finding fault with the slightest imperfection, heaping criticism atop criticism. Even the silver rings seemed to mock him. As if they heard his thoughts, they began to deviate, spacing themselves much farther apart and creating a haphazard path that rose and fell, twisted and looped, writhing like the legendary cloud dragon in the midst of its death throes…and Fox danced with it, matching its every move. His wrists flicked this way and that on the stick, and the raptor obeyed, swooped from one ring to the next, faster and faster as it wove through the course…tumbling end over end and yet always under control.

"Caution! Pull up!"

Fox ignored the synthesized voice, skimming the treetops as he took a particularly low ring at top speed. Pulling sharply into a hairpin turn, his eyes began to darken, forcing him to tense his neck muscles to buy a few more seconds of consciousness. Even the powerful g-diffuser failed to protect him completely as he righted the craft, breathing hard. He never could have imagined pulling stunts like this, wearing an ordinary suit and piloting a Corneria Fighter. There was no doubt about it. A single Arwing combined with a g-diffuser system would cut through a front line squadron like a hot knife through butter in the right hands.

"Echo One, this is Lieutenant Jenkins," came a voice from the ground. "You're at 5.7 kilometers and closing fast. The final series is coming up on your right, bearing three-five-zero degrees."

"I copy," replied Fox. He pressed firmly on the rudder pedals, changing course ever so slightly to intercept the remaining rings. The base control tower and the observation platform were clearly visible now. "You'd better be watching me captain," he thought. "'Cause I'm gonna knock your socks off!"

PAHK! 

A sharp crack and a bright blue flash startled him, followed by a strange whirring and the smell of burnt electrical components. A flashing red lamp on the panel in front of him made his stomach drop into his shoes…the g-diffuser system had burned out, and the final section of the course was still before him. No! Why now! He cursed softly as he eyed the distant ring through the HUD. It had been a perfect run…a PERFECT RUN! Why did it have to pick this moment to fail!

"Echo One," the other lieutenant addressed him. "What's going on up there?"

"Something's wrong with the diffuser system," reported Fox, tapping desperately at the console. "I can't get it back up."

"Confirmed," Jenkins nodded. "We're still receiving telemetry, but there was a power surge at time index 1742. Looks like the generator overloaded."

"All right kid, you're done," Kaminski cut in, though strangely, his gruff voice didn't seem angry or disappointed.

"Come again sir?" Fox tapped his helmet. "I don't copy."

"You're done," Kaminski repeated in a louder voice. "The run is over…now let's—"

"Huh?" Fox asked, continuing to play stupid. "Sorry sir, I'm having trouble making you out. That surge must've damaged my headset." Done? Hell no! Not like this! Not like this he wasn't!

"We…have…enough…data," Jenkins said slowly and clearly. "The…run…is…over."

"Not over? Of course it's not over," said Fox. "Sorry sir, looks like my audio's fried. I'll see you when I finish my run. Echo One out."

"YOU CAN STOP BEING A SMARTASS MCCLOUD! WE BOTH KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME," Kaminski shouted. "Now, you turn that bird around and—" But he couldn't finish before a soft click cut him off mid-sentence.

"You can't disobey an order you can't hear," Fox chuckled to himself as he tossed the headset's broken transmitter over his shoulder. The base commander could yell until he was hoarse, but it would do him no good. "All right…bring it," he challenged the nav ring. G-diffuser or no g-diffuser, he was finishing the course.

As he cleared the first ring and banked hard left, the full, undiluted fury of inertia hit him like a ten ton safe. "Huuurgh!" He grunted, putting every ounce of training to use as he battled both the course and the threatening darkness that closed in on all sides. Down went another ring…then another. Abruptly, the silver path through the air rolled over, leading him out of his steep climb into a nosedive. His vision faded back in, only to be tinged with red this time. It was negative-g, and the far more dangerous prospect of red out as the blood rushed toward his head instead of away from it, straining the capillaries in his eyes. This was really pushing it…if he wasn't careful, he could go blind, or worse! Another three rings bit the dust, disappearing in his wake before another steep climb sent his heart from his mouth back into the pit of his stomach.

"Just a little further," he gasped dizzily. "C'mon Fox…you can do this—hrruuugh!" The raptor rocked back and forth, nabbing another pair of rings before inverting to arc through a third. The list of remaining nav points grew shorter and shorter. Ten rings became five…then three…then two.

"All right you son of a bitch," Fox grunted. "You wanted it done right? How's this!" He jerked back on the stick, turning as tight as he could possibly manage as the final two rings off to one side, barely twenty meters away. But it was not to be. His unprotected body was at its limit, and in a test between pilot and machine, it could not keep up.

"Don't black out," he gasped. "Don't black out….don't black out….don't……black……"

"OH NO! OH NO! PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD NO!" 

Fox groaned, the world spinning around him dizzily as James cradled his small body in his arms. Breaking into the open air, his father eased him gently onto his back on the grass. "Just hang on…you hear me Junior?" The elder McCloud keyed frantically at his watch, nearly ripping it off as he activated the emergency distress beacon to signal the paramedics. "I've already lost your mother. I can't lose you too!"

The kit coughed, smoke from the burning building still filling his lungs. He hurt all over. Tiny shards of glass bit into his arms and legs like knives. Dazed, it was all he could do to just look up at his father. James was hardly in better shape, blood staining his flight jacket from an open gash on the side of his face.

"Dad…I'm so sleepy," Fox murmured, eyes starting to close.

"No, don't go to sleep!" James's voice was raw with emotion. "Fox? Fox! Look at me! You have to hold on for a few more minutes okay?"

"I'm trying," Fox gasped. "So hard. Just wanna…rest."

"Stay with me," James commanded. "I want you to name all the countries on the northern continent starting with ours!"

Fox moaned, eyes lidded as he struggled to obey. "Beinichia…Sumin…Breslowe…Angkellandia"

"No, keep your eyes open," ordered James. "Angkellandia. What's next to Angkellandia?"

"East Sanghop…Norland…uhhh……"

"Yes, Norland," James nodded. "C'mon…what's next? Fox? Fox!"

"Caution! Pull up! Pull up! Pull up!"

A voice called to him in the distance…out of the blackness, but what was it saying? He struggled to understand the words.

"Caution! Pull up! Pull up! Pull up!"

"Oh shit!" Opening his eyes to behold the ground racing toward him, he jerked back on the stick. The Arwing's nose pulled clear, but the starboard wingtip was not quick enough to avoid clipping the trunk of a lonely pine. The recoil tore the craft around and sent Fox's head slamming into the side of the canopy, leaving a bloody crater. Stunned, he somehow managed to engage the landing thrusters before the fighter crashed to earth…and then he knew no more.

**---**

The last rays of the setting sun seeped through Fox's eyelids from over the hill. Wincing, he opened them slowly, blinking as things gradually came into focus. A room…he was indoors, and the window was open, the white curtain fluttering gently in the evening breeze. He was on his back…something soft under him…a bed perhaps? Yes, it was most definitely a bed, and there was a white sheet and standard issue cotton blanket lying across his chest. Ah, now he knew where this was. He was back at the base hospital…but why? Why was he here? He'd already gotten patched up this morning before…before the crash. He tried to sit up..oof, bad choice! A wave of nausea compelled him to rethink that idea. It was better if he just stayed put for now.

"I'd take it easy if I were you kid."

Fox jerked his head in the direction of the voice, his eyes falling on the base commander standing in the open doorway—the officer he least wanted to see just now, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it. "Sir," he nodded curtly, pushing himself up on the pillow as far as he could manage.

Kaminski strode forward, snagging the room's only chair with one hand and settling into it, folding his arms. "How're you feeling?"

"I've had better days," Fox replied after a moment. "But I'll live."

"Glad to hear it," the husky nodded, his face as inscrutable as ever. "Because you're lucky to be here."

"What happened," asked Fox. "The last thing I remember was the ground coming toward me. I busted my head pretty hard on something…and then I woke up here."

"I'm not surprised," said Kaminski. "The flight surgeon says you had a concussion…among other things. No permanent damage, but he wants you to stay flat on your back for awhile."

Fox nodded. He absolutely hated being confined to bed, but even he knew it was the right call under the circumstances. His body needed some time to recuperate. "What about the Arwing," he inquired anxiously.

"Under repair," the husky replied. "Tough bird. All things considered, it's in very good shape. Should be flyable again in no time…but not by you kid."

Fox's heart sank. Well, that was it. He had given it everything he had, but it just wasn't enough. He had failed, and to top it off, he had come so close to pulling it off…so close that he had tripped over the finish line!

"By the way," Kaminski frowned. "I found something you lost." Reaching into his shirt pocket, the base commander held up a small, black object. The transmitter…they had found the transmitter when they rescued him from the crash site. There was no hiding it now.

Fox sighed softly, forcing himself to make eye contact with his CO. "I have no excuse sir," he admitted.

"You're damn right," Kaminski rebuked him. "Technically, you didn't disobey my direct order McCloud. _Technically_ you didn't hear me order you to land immediately, but you sure as hell knew I did." The canine hurled the useless piece of equipment into the air, sending it clattering into the metal wastebasket across the room. "So you thought you were going teach the old bastard a lesson huh? Finish the course anyway? You could have been dead and taken that Arwing to hell with you!"

"Yes sir," Fox muttered softly. "I'm sorry sir."

Kaminski leaned in close. "You realize I could have you court marshaled and dismissed for that stunt you pulled today?"

Fox nodded solemnly, a heavy weight bearing down upon him. His career was finished. Everything he had worked for was in vain. It didn't matter what the future held. Any other life that might follow would be hollow and empty. However, there was nothing he could do now. He knew his CO had long desired an excuse to get rid of him, and he had given Kaminski that excuse. The base commander held him in the palm of his hand, and all the vulpine could do was bear the consequences of his actions with as much dignity as he could muster.

Kaminski frowned, scratching his chin as he stared deep into the young pilot's eyes for a long moment. "But I won't take your wings," he said at last. His voice grew softer, losing its biting edge, "Because I know why you did it." He sat back, and for the first time since they had known each other, the husky addressed him by his given name. "Fox, I have done you grave injustice, and I ask your forgiveness."

Fox blinked, hardly believing what he was hearing. "Sir?"

Kaminski shook his head, silencing the junior officer with one hand before continuing. "When I was first asked to oversee the final shakedown of the Arwing prototype, I had a daunting task ahead of me. These things take a lot of work and many months of preparation, and I was ready for that…but the biggest challenge of all, was picking the right pilot to do the job." He rose from his seat and began to pace slowly. "Of course, there was no shortage of prospects and glowing letters of recommendation from every corner of Lylat. I must have read a thousand profiles before I made my decision, but when I met a certain ace from Bulldog Unit here on Corneria in person, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt I had found the man for the job."

Fox listened, ears cupped forward as he took in the captain's words. The mysterious pilot who was 'no longer an option.' He had long wondered about this airman, the one whose shoes he had been called to fill. It seemed he would finally be getting some answers to the million questions that had been buzzing in his head since the day he arrived.

"Then, just a couple of weeks before he was scheduled to transfer, he was injured in a boating accident and died on the way to the hospital." Kaminski shook his head sadly. "Damn good fighter pilot…he shouldn't have gone like that." Ambling back to his chair, he took a seat once more. "So there I was, with only a couple of weeks left and in desperate need of a replacement when General Pepper called to ask how things were going. I informed him of the situation and asked for his recommendation. That's when he sent me your profile."

"That's when he cancelled my deployment orders," thought Fox, "And ordered me to report here."

"One Ensign Fox McCloud," Kaminski chuckled. "Son of Commander James McCloud, twenty-two years old, fresh out of the academy, and hadn't served a single tour of duty. I looked at that pad and I said to myself, 'what the hell kind of bullshit is this?' This was some kind of joke right? But no, this guy was serious! So I read your record—cover to cover—and then I thought, 'I smell a dead fish.'"

"Come again sir?" Fox tilted his head, not catching the captain's meaning.

Kaminski chuckled. "Somehow, I felt something was out of place, so I dug deeper. I learned your father was a close personal friend of the general…that they had known each other for years…and then I thought, 'this kid must have had that posting handed to him on a silver platter. Hell, with friends in such high places, he might've waltzed through the academy too without breaking a sweat.' It was the only explanation."

Fox bristled slightly, resenting these demeaning words. Nevertheless, he held his tongue and waited.

"So I decided to be harsh with you," said the captain. "Give you a taste of what it was like to shoulder your own burdens…fight your own fights without someone pulling strings. To be honest, I thought you'd wash out in a couple of weeks, but you surprised me. You held on tenaciously, and no matter what I threw at you, you refused to quit. You were the real deal." Kaminski closed his eyes, a strange smile playing upon his muzzle. "The day you asked my permission to speak freely and declared you never took your position here for granted…that was the day I swore I'd request you to serve under my command again when this project was finished." He sighed, "But I started this thing being harsh…so I had to play the part until it was done…and I pushed you too far." The husky raised his head to look at Fox once more. "I was wrong McCloud. It wasn't politics at all. You're a damn fine aviator, and I apologize for failing to see that earlier." He shook his head softly. "I know how you must feel about me, and I understand. If you choose to hate my guts, I won't hold it against you."

Fox didn't answer immediately, still trying to get a handle on what he'd just heard. To put it mildly, this all came as quite a shock, and he wasn't quite sure how to respond. He did harbor bitter feelings toward the husky, but at the same time, knowing the truth, and hearing his superior officer apologize like this…well…he honestly didn't know how to answer.

Kaminski chuckled dryly, seeming to understand what was on the young airman's mind. "Well," he said, "one way or another, this assignment is history…for both of us." He pulled a large blue envelope from his pocket. "Orders from the top. I'm being transferred to the 82nd Air Group on Titania. I'll be replacing their squadron commander." He scratched aimlessly at the official seal before rising to his feet once more. "I meant what I said back there kid. I'll leave the choice to you, but I'd be honored if you would agree to serve under me on my new assignment."

Fox thought for a moment, weighing the prospect of a random unit against Kaminski's offer. Honestly, whenever he looked at the husky, resentment still welled up within his heart, but after all, wasn't forgiveness sometimes a long journey…one that began with a single step? Here was an opportunity to take that step, but it would not be an easy task. "I don't know sir," he said at last. "Can I get back to you on that?"

Kaminski nodded. "Take your time kid. Meanwhile, I'll let you get some rest…you've earned it." The husky turned his steps toward the door. As he reached the threshold, he paused as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him, chuckling softly.

"Is something wrong sir," Fox asked, raising a brow.

Kaminski shook his head. "Not at all…just something I remembered." The base commander glanced over his shoulder his eyes twinkling in amusement. "Good job out there today McCloud," he said. "I couldn't have asked for a cleaner run…even from a machine."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The first light of a gray, misty dawn brightened the sky in the east as an azure furred vulpine kit strained to see the horizon from the window of his family's apartment. At long last, after a solid week of heavy, unceasing rain, a break in the weather seemed imminent. Nevertheless, a thin layer of fog still obscured the wide, open fields at the far edge of town and the launch complex beyond them. Come midday, the sun would cut through the soup, burning it away, but by then it would be over, and there would be nothing to see.

The kit glanced over his shoulder to the clock on the wall. It was the beginning of the first hour. At the start of any other given week, he would have already been dressed, his book bag in one hand and his lunch box in the other as he walked down the hill toward the transit station, heading to school. However, this day was different. This day was special. It was the day on which the eyes of all Cerinia were fixed on Three Mountains Space Center and the Aurora, the world's first light-speed exploration vehicle. Given the importance of the project, which had captured the public's imagination from the moment of its inception, all schools, businesses, and government offices throughout the region were scheduled to open a few hours later than usual, so that all citizens might experience the historic event.

"Aw, I still can't see anything!"

"I don't think you will Sebastian," came the voice of Mother as she returned from the kitchen, holding Baby Maria in her arms. "Not from the window anyway. Why don't you try the television?"

Sebastian was across the room in a flash, turning the gray box's round knob and plopping himself down on the floor in front of it, watching eagerly as the image of two news anchors faded into view. Sure enough, coverage of the launch preparations was already underway. One of the anchors was in the midst of giving a weather report.

_"…is cloudy with an air temperature of thirty kalcors and variable winds. While we could probably ask for more favorable conditions, the International Space Exploration Agency has decided to give the go-ahead for an attempt this morning. ISEA started terminal countdown operations from 0:18. We are now in the final stages."_

"I wonder what Dad's doing right now," murmured Sebastian, eyeing the colossal silver bird atop the many powerful rockets of the launch vehicle. Pride swelled in his chest when he thought of his father—former naval aviator, astronaut, and now mission commander aboard the Aurora with two-dozen crew members under his authority. Yet, that pride was tempered by a sharp pang of loneliness as he realized he would not see his father again for some time. Even at the tremendous speed of light, the Aurora's trip to their sun's nearest neighbor in the cosmos, a faint point of red in the evening skies, would take five long years. The crew would be in stasis, but for those who remained on the home world, time would pass, and life would go on as it always had. A child of only nine seasons, he would be a man of twenty by the time the mission was complete. Would Dad even recognize him? He did not know.

"You're the man of the house now son," his father had said to him as the family exchanged their final farewells on the train platform. "Take care of your mother and sister for me. I'm counting on you!" Down on one knee in front of Sebastian, the man whom he had looked up to for as long as he could remember was going away. The man who had never cried—at least not that the kit could recall—had tears welling up in his eyes, shimmering under the fluorescent station lights. Yet, his face bore a grin, one as warm and strong as the sun's rays on a summer afternoon in the lowlands. "I promise no matter what…we'll meet at this very spot in eleven seasons, and I'll be thinking about you every day until I return. I'm off to make history for our people. So no tears! No regrets! No goodbyes! Just, 'until we meet again.' Smiles and good wishes until we meet again…understand?" And Sebastian had stood straight and tall, wiped the rivers of tears from his cheeks, and grinned back, though it ached worse than anything he could have imagined. He had not stopped smiling, even as the train whistle blew, and the express sped out of sight, bearing his father on the first leg of his long journey.

"Minus 30…29…28…"

The countdown broke into Sebastian's thoughts. He clasped his hands, offering a silent prayer.

"15…14…heat battery activation…disconnect main umbilical clamps…"

"No goodbyes," Sebastian murmured, watching the metallic beast springing to life. "Just…'until we meet again.'"

"9…8…7…all systems green"

Sebastian sighed as Mother sat down next to him, holding him tightly with her free arm. "Until we meet again…"

"5…4…3…2…1…booster ignition and liftoff of the Aurora SEV, bound for new worlds and new horizons!"

A low, deep roar reached the kit's ears over the sounds of the television and the cheers from the neighbors across the hall. Rising to his bare feet, Sebastian dashed to the window, straining once again to catch a glimpse of the real Aurora through the mist. Before him the clouds were the color of fire as a second sun rose from the plains toward the heavens, the hot gases from the booster rockets tracing the arc of the great ship on its ascent.

"Until we meet…again."

---

"Here batter-batter-batter!" Tiger Torayama goaded the infantry private at the plate. "Man, I felt a cool breeze from that last strikeout. Next!"

"The only breeze you'll be feeling is the ball sailing over the fence," the canine prodded back.

"Not if I have anything to do with it," yelled a pilot from far left field.

"Go ahead and try it!" The right fielder taunted.

"No sweat Tiger! We've gotcha covered!" Fox called from center, slamming his fist into his glove with a defiant grin. "Bring it on!" Ah, it certainly felt good to be playing baseball again after such a long hiatus. Prior to accepting this posting, he hadn't picked up a glove since grade school. He watched as the batter took several practice swings, psyching himself to face the pitch. The infantryman was visibly stalling, pacing back and forth and stepping in and out of the batter's box as if he was uncertain of where to stand. When would he be ready? Hopefully it would be sometime today.

If one had ever desired a place in all the Lylat System to "get away from it all," Titania's Great Northern Desert would have ranked near the top of the list. Unfortunately for the would-be tourist however, this was far from a vacation spot. With scorching days, frigid nights, and the frequent dust storms that raged across the planet's barren surface, only the hardiest of native life forms managed to survive between the unyielding rock and the endless sea of sand. Visitors to this remote outpost of Cornerian territory were few, usually personnel for the smattering of bases the defense forces maintained across the more hospitable western hemisphere or the occasional archaeological expedition searching for undiscovered ruins built by the planet's original inhabitants. Their long dead civilization had mysteriously vanished without a trace…swallowed by the sands.

A few miles from the dunes at the fringes of the desert stood Camp Kennedy, home to the Cornerian Space Defense Force 82nd Air Group. Here its two interceptor squadrons shared barracks with a small army garrison—just over two hundred troops. Clearly, the pilots were the lucky ones. Morning and afternoon, a handful of craft would take to the skies, bound for combat space patrol in orbit or the occasional reconnaissance mission further afield. The ground troops could only watch enviously as they disappeared into the clouds. On the surface, there was little to break the monotony of the desert watch, save the eagerly anticipated weekly baseball games between the army garrison and the air group. Sometimes the airmen triumphed over their foes, and sometimes they made a humiliating retreat back to their barracks, only to fight again another day. The results were never certain on this battlefield—a battlefield marked by a long chain-link fence and lines drawn in the sand.

Fox mopped his brow, exhaling a puff of air as the late afternoon sun beat mercilessly down upon him, searing the fur of his bare back. It was hot…so terribly hot, and everyone was long overdue for a water break. "Get on with it already," he muttered under his breath as the batter rubbed some dirt in his hands, continuing to take his time. Back and forth…back and forth…the soldier paced. Then again, it was difficult to blame the guy. Fox could certainly understand the pressure the canine faced. It was the bottom of the ninth, two outs, and with the army down by one run; this was their last chance. They needed to score.

At last, the batter tapped the plate, signaling his intent. Tiger stole a quick glance over his shoulder, making sure the runner on second wasn't getting any ideas. Then, he wound up and let loose a powerful throw.

"Strike One!" Captain Kaminski bellowed from behind the makeshift home plate, a shallow tin bowl from the mess hall that had been turned upside down and planted deep in the sand. The fiercely competitive young soldiers desperately needed a trustworthy umpire capable of remaining neutral, and when it came to making impartial calls Kaminski did his job well. Despite the apparent conflict of interests, he was as tough on his own pilots as he was on the opposition.

Tiger frowned, seeing the runner behind him taking a few steps in the direction of third. Nevertheless, he hurled the ball once again, and once again it landed solidly in the catcher's mitt.

"Strike Two!"

"That's how ya do it Torayama!" A few pilots who had just finished their duty shifts shouted their encouragement as they stopped to watch. "One more baby! One more!"

"Let's go Salazar," yelled one of the army bystanders. "You can do this!"

Salazar stepped out of the batter's box…collecting himself. He took a few more practice swings, then returned to his place, tapping home plate and nodding to the pitcher. As Torayama's fastball streaked toward him, he swung hard, and a solid crack echoed across the sands…a base hit! The army supporters rose to their feet. Hope kindled, they cheered loudly for their teammate as he dropped the bat and took off, his feet pounding the earth. The right fielder cursed, struggling with the unpredictable ground ball. Managing to snatch it up, he launched it into the air, but it failed to reach the first baseman in time. Tiger now had two problems, one on either side.

"Hey, it's all right! It's all right!" Fox called. "Shake it off!"

"Just got lucky, that's all!" echoed the shortstop. "Let's throw the next punch!"

A coyote rose from among the ground troops and headed toward the plate, a smug smile on his face. One Corporal Lance Mitchell…here stood one of their team's most formidable sluggers. "You ready for this," he taunted the pitcher. "Three-run homer just for you…right here kitty!"

"Oh I'm ready," Tiger grinned, tail lashing back and forth as his muscles bunched under his striped coat. "But you're a hundred years too early to get a homer off me! HYAAAH!"

Mitchell swung quickly, but he only got a piece of the ball, popping it high and away toward the control tower.

"Foul Ball!"

Tiger windmilled his right arm, loosening it up while an onlooker retrieved the stray ball. He looked tired. The game had been long, and the desert heat was beginning to take its toll on him. Eyeing Mitchell, he grunted as he managed to send another killer pitch across the plate.

"Strike Two!"

"Keep it comin'!" Fox called. If his wingman could put Mitchell away here, they could all breathe a bit easier. The next few army personnel in the lineup weren't particularly skilled and could be dealt with in fairly short order.

"Ball One!"

Tiger however, appeared to be running out of steam.

"Ball Two!"

A worried murmur arose from the assembled pilots on the fence. They watched in dismay as Tiger hurled a third sloppy pitch, this one taking a dangerous bounce off the sand before the catcher smothered it in his mitt. That was close…too close! Now it was the pitcher's turn to step off the mound for a bit and collect his thoughts. In center field, Fox knew very well what was going through Tiger's mind. They all knew it. A walk here would load the bases and put the game on the edge of a cliff. Mitchell had to be stopped here and now.

Tiger took a deep breath, checked the runners, and aimed for the outside corner of the strike zone. The white sphere spun wildly as it sliced through the air, but just before it reached the plate, it seemed to wobble ever so slightly, and Mitchell's sharp eyes stayed his hands. The coyote had received a free pass to first.

"_Shit!_" The pitcher cursed, burying his forehead in his hand as Mitchell dropped his bat and jogged the short distance to first base. Eagerly taking his place in the batter's box was a young private, the army's hope for victory. Tiger raised his hand, signaling the umpire for a timeout, and hurriedly summoned both the catcher and the outfielders to the "mound" for a quick meeting. His expression was unusually grim.

"Guys, I can't do this."

"Why? What's wrong," asked Trent, the catcher. "Did you pull something?"

"Nah," Tiger shook his head. "But my arm's shot to hell. I'm gonna have to trade spots with one of you."

The right fielder shifted uncomfortably. "Trade spots? Now? I dunno if that's a good idea."

"That could be a problem," agreed the left fielder. "This could be the game right here, and none of us can pitch worth a shit compared to you…not by a long shot."

"He's right Tiger," Fox nodded. "If you ask me, you should just finish it up. It won't be much longer." If only there were a relief pitcher to substitute at a time like this. However, the small, amateur team could not afford such a luxury.

"Oh c'mon!" Tiger growled, rolling his right shoulder with a grimace. "Were you guys asleep when I walked Mitchell? A first grader could throw better than that."

"Maybe," Trent nodded, "But even at your worst, you beat us hands down."

"Look, this isn't time to bullshit," said Tiger. "Sure, I know I could go head-to-head with any one of you guys and kick your ass...if I hadn't pitched nine innings already. If somebody doesn't trade off with me, we're going to lose this game and have to put up with those army meatheads rubbing our noses in it for a week. Do you _really_ want that?"

"No," conceded Trent.

"All right then!" Tiger retorted. "So, who's replacing me?"

"Maybe we should flip a coin," suggested the left fielder uncertainly. "Unless we have a volunteer?"

"We're not flipping coins," Fox said flatly.

"Does that mean you're pitching," asked Tiger.

"No," Fox shook his head, placing one hand on his wingman's shoulder. "You are."

"Oh for crying out loud—" Tiger snorted.

"Tiger!" Fox cut him off, his gaze hard. "You aren't switching off. If you had heat stroke or a broken arm, sure, we'd step in and take over. But you're still standing aren't you? C'mon…where's that gung-ho spirit of yours?"

Tiger bristled. "This isn't about spirit. This is about what's best for the team!"

"Then let's do what's best for the team," said Fox, "And that means you finish it! If we lose…I'll take full responsibility."

"You _do_ realize what you're saying," Trent cautioned, looking to the vulpine. "Pride isn't the only thing at stake here. A lot of our buddies have bet a month's pay on us ending this losing streak of ours. Are you willing to face up to them if we crash and burn?"

"I am," Fox nodded, eyes still fixed on Tiger. "But I won't have to…because Tiger's gonna stop 'em cold…right here!" To be sure, it was definitely a gamble. Deep down, he wondered if this was all a huge mistake, but he wasn't about to let anyone else know that…his wingman least of all. "C'mon Tiger. Whaddya say?"

Tiger paused. He closed his eyes and drew a slow, deep breath, exhaling in a long whoosh. Looking back at Fox, a corner of his muzzle twitched into a wry smile. "I say…what the hell are you people standing around for? Let's do this!"

Fox grinned. "Give 'em hell Torayama." Giving his teammate a good slap on the uninjured left shoulder, he and the rest of the outfield retreated back to their posts. One way or another, the outcome would be decided in the next few moments.

"Play ball!" Captain Kaminski called as Trent regained his station. Tiger said nothing, staring down his opponent with fearless repose—like a hunter stalking his prey. Then, in a single, fluid motion, he sent the ball sailing over the plate. The army private swung quickly, but to no avail as the ball buried itself in the catcher's mitt.

"Strike one!"

"A perfect throw," thought Fox. If his wingman was still fatigued, there was no outward sign. Amidst the cheers from the assembled pilots, Tiger was strangely silent, forgoing the usual provocative banter with his adversary. There was an uncharacteristic air of deadly seriousness about him. The gloves were off. He was taking no prisoners. Another fastball leapt from his hand, and once again, the soldier's bat found only empty air.

"Strike two!"

"Let's go Torayama!" A pilot called from among the assembled airmen.

"Hang in there Kramer!" A chorus of ground troops countered as they rose to their feet. "Don't give up now!"

The atmosphere was electric as every pair of eyes in the vicinity remained fixed on the dueling opponents in the center of the field. Tiger shifted his weight, giving Trent the slightest of nods before winding up and catapulting the ball into flight—but as it sailed out of his hand, it was immediately obvious to Fox that something was wrong. All at once, the pitcher's brave front collapsed as his face contorted in pain, and the ball sailed cleanly, but with only a fraction of its usual velocity toward the plate. Kramer seized on it at once. With the report of a thunderclap, he sent the ball high into the air toward the outfield. The die had been cast, but where would it land?

"I got it!"

Fox checked his pace as he and the left fielder both started for the pop fly. Having more height than distance, the white sphere reached the top of its arc well within the bounds of the empty field. It certainly lacked the necessary momentum to get over the fence. However, judging who was in a better position to grab it wasn't easy.

"_Shit—_I _don't_ got it!" The left fielder cried out in despair.

Caught by a sudden gust of wind, the ball curved in mid-flight, changing everything in the blink of an eye. There was no way the left fielder could get under the ball, nor could anyone from the infield reach it in time! The vulpine groaned internally, his jog breaking into all-out sprint. It was falling fast, gravity's inexorable pull assisted by the downdraft, and it was going to hit the ground ahead of him, far ahead, but he could not let that happen. In the time it would take to scoop up the ball and hurl it back toward home plate, the winning runs would score. He had to make it! Somehow he just had to make it! But it wasn't possible!

Back in the infield, the army runners charged around the bases as the pilots watched helplessly. Though he could ill-afford to pay them any mind, Fox could discern their blurred outlines in his peripheral vision. The soldier from third was almost home, and the ball was only seconds from the dirt! Where the hell was he?!

"GRAAAAH!!!!!!!"

In an act of pure desperation, he pushed off hard with his right foot and leaped forward, eyes fixed on the white sphere as he threw his outstretched hand toward it. Then he slammed into the sand face first, his mouth immediately filling with its dry, coarse bitterness. The ball? Where was the ball?! Hardly daring to believe, he clenched his left fist and felt the small weight on the tip of his fingers slide gently into his palm. He had it! Somehow he had the ball! Heaving himself back onto knees, the vulpine sneezed the dirt from his muzzle and pumped his glove high into the air as an ecstatic whoop tore from his lungs! The airmen had won.

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!"

"We did it! We really did it!"

"Hell yeah! Great catch McCloud!"

Fox sprang to his feet, yelling at the top of his voice as he and the outfielders rushed toward the base of the control tower to join the rest of the team, still clutching the ball firmly in his glove. What an awesome finish! He hardly felt the scorching heat or his thirst anymore. All around them, the crestfallen army garrison could only stand dejectedly in silent repose; some gathering up their belongings and trudging wearily back toward their barracks. But the pilots of the 82nd Air Group grinned from ear to ear, reveling in their triumph. Victory was theirs.

"McCloud! Torayama!"

"Yes sir!"

Fox swiveled an ear as Captain Kaminski's voice cut through the cloud of excited chatter. "Yes sir," he replied crisply, immediately all business.

"You two clean yourselves up and be in my office by 1800 hours," said the squadron commander, redoing the top two buttons of his summer uniform. "I've got a job that needs to be done, and you boys are the ones to do it." To an outsider, his demeanor might have seemed a little gruff, but as a pilot who had spent more than six months under his command, Fox could easily discern the subtle nuances in his commander's expression. From the looks of it, the husky was very pleased.

"I'll have the details for you when you arrive. In the meantime," Kaminski directed his gaze toward the army barracks, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "someone needs to tell Colonel West how his troops fared in today's engagement. I believe that burden rests with me."

---

"A recon mission?"

"That's right." Kaminski nodded, waiting patiently as Fox and Tiger studied the flight plan on the large pad between them. "We haven't given the area around Macbeth a good sweep for some time now. I want you to take a look around on your patrol tomorrow afternoon."

"Macbeth," Fox muttered under his breath. For any serviceman, the name Macbeth brought back unpleasant memories. Although settled long ago by Cornerian miners, who developed the barren rock with backbreaking toil and sweat, transforming it into a substantial industrial powerhouse as well as a center of aeronautical innovation, the government had yielded sovereignty to Venom some years before…in the interests of peace. Now, obtaining information of any kind on the planet was extremely difficult, even under the best of circumstances. The world's new masters had all but isolated it from the rest of the system, tightly controlling anyone or anything that passed between it and the outside. Thus, the few sporadic, long-range scans by the space defense forces were the only clue to be had about Venom's intentions—provided that the craft were not driven away by opposing combat space patrols before they could enter sensor range.

"Is this the standard 'take a snapshot and run like hell' mission sir," asked Tiger. "Or are we looking for something in particular?"

Kaminski keyed the flat display, pulling up a grainy, composite image of Macbeth's surface. "This was a scan of the planet taken by the Star Fox ESU shortly before their ill-fated mission last year. As you can see, there's nothing too much out of the ordinary." The squadron commander paused for a moment, allowing his subordinates to absorb the image before them. "Now, here's a scan that was taken two months ago." With a few taps of his fingertips, the husky called forth a new image of precisely the same dimensions, but with a key difference.

Fox's eyes were immediately drawn to a dark spot just south of the former provincial capital. "What the hell is that?" The vulpine's tail swished in agitation. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't a natural formation, and it was big—very big. If he didn't know better, he would have guessed it was an impact crater.

"That boys, is what you are going to tell me," Kaminski replied. "These orders are coming from the Joint Chiefs themselves—straight from the top. We're going to find out what those guys are building down there, and take appropriate action."

Tiger folded his arms, eyeing the map with a dubious expression. "Pardon me for asking sir, but how are we going to get a closer look? Even if we were to cross the demarcation line, our sensors wouldn't have the power or the resolution to make a detailed picture."

Kaminski nodded. "Indeed. That's why you'll be taking this."

Fox watched as his CO brought up another set of images on the display. Beneath the wireframe of the Corneria Fighter was a large, elongated piece of external ordinance—or at least something that resembled it. "A torpedo sir?" It was one big enough to cripple a small warship. Why would a strap-on warhead be of use on a mission like this?

"Not this time McCloud," Kaminski shook his head. "It may look like a torpedo, but that casing holds a high resolution sensor package. With this baby mounted to your ventral hard point, you could practically read a billboard on the surface and still be two million kilometers from their side of the line…but there's a catch."

"Wasn't there always a catch," thought Fox.

"These gadgets need a lot of juice to do their stuff," the husky explained. "That means while you make your run, you'll have to divert most of your shield, weapon, and engine power to the sensor pack. Assuming you've done your jobs well and evaded detection from the surface, you should be able to take your scans and get the hell out of there before they can intercept you. If not…"

"If not, we'll be sitting ducks," said Fox. This was definitely a high stakes operation, with the potential for both tremendous reward and disastrous failure. Indeed, in the worst possible outcome, it could very well cost them their craft and their lives, but this was their duty…what they had been trained to do. All those long years at the academy boiled down to situations like these. An assignment like this was inevitable, and while Fox could not speak for his comrade, he knew he was up to the challenge. "Leave it to us sir," he said confidently, looking Kaminski squarely in the eye. "We'll be gone before they even knew we were there."

"I hope so kid," the squadron commander nodded. "I really do." Locking his steely gaze with the two young pilots before him…first Fox…then Tiger, his voice grew quieter, yet lost none of its earnestness. "Needless to say, I expect a first-rate, professional job as always. I'm counting on the both of you. Don't let me down."

"Yes sir!" Fox replied solemnly.

"Yes sir!" Tiger echoed, nearly in unison.

"One more thing," said Kaminski. "We have only one sensor pack. That means one of you will be responsible for scanning the surface. The other will fly cover for the operation." Reaching into his pocket, he brought forth a coin.

Fox could not help but tilt his head curiously. Hard currency? No one had used hard currency since before he was born, or even his father and grandfather before him. He watched as the husky flipped the silver sanpon, turning it over in his palm.

"A long time ago, people tossed these things to decide between two alternatives," the husky explained, holding up the disk to display each of its unique sides. "Here's how the game works. The side with the figure is called 'heads.' The side bearing the Great Seal is called 'tails.' When I toss the coin, Torayama will choose a side before it hits the floor. McCloud, you will take the other side. The man whose side is facing up wins the toss and will carry the pod. The other will back him up. Are there any questions?"

The pilots shook their heads.

"Good," Kaminski nodded. Without another word, the squadron commander sent the coin spiraling into the air, tumbling end over end…much like the baseball from the afternoon game.

"Tails!" Tiger shouted, moments before the coin clattered to the floor, spinning unsteadily for a few moments before settling on the unpolished wood. The Great Seal of Corneria was clearly discernable under the light.

"Congratulations Torayama," said Kaminski. "You're our cameraman."

---

"Unnh! Can't…shake 'em…"

Fox's eyes opened blearily. Staring up at the ceiling of the barracks, a voice pricked his ears.

"Get 'em off…ugh…"

What was that? The vulpine rubbed his eyes, and blinking awake, he realized the sound was coming from below him. Peering over the side, of his bunk, he watched as his wingman tossed and turned in his sleep, apparently in the midst of a terrible nightmare. The striped cat was breathing heavily. He had already kicked his blanket onto the wooden floor, his fists tightly clenched, as if holding a fighter's control stick in a death grip. Strange…Tiger was a deep sleeper most of the time. What was disturbing him tonight was difficult to guess. Fox scratched his head, sitting up and hopping down to the floor, relieved that the rest of the squadron was too soundly asleep to be awakened so easily.

"Fox…get 'em off…unnnh! Where…are you Fox?"

"Tiger," Fox called gently, his voice just above a whisper. He hoped the sound would be enough to snap his comrade out of it.

"Errrgh…I've had it…"

"Tiger," Fox hissed, a little more strongly. What was that nonsense about people being easiest to rouse when they were dreaming?

"Eject…eject…eject…" Tiger moaned.

"Hey!" Fox gave the feline a light, swift jab in the side. "C'mon…wake up!"

"Eugh!" Tiger sat up sharply, eyes wide, and his fur damp with sweat as his breathing slowly quieted. It took a moment for his eyes to settle on Fox, who was peering down at him with a look of quiet concern.

"Easy there buddy," said Fox. "Some bad dream huh?"

"Yeah," Tiger nodded, clearing his throat and yawning widely. "For some reason, you and I were at that new colony…Katina. Dunno why we were there, but all of a sudden, the sky just burst, and out fell all these Venomian fighters. There were hundreds of 'em, we were just trying to survive and—" he shook his head, waving one hand dismissively. "It was only a dream."

"Something on your mind," asked Fox.

"Nah, I just need to take a piss," Tiger muttered, rising and stepping into his boots. "I'll be back in a sec."

"Okay then," Fox chuckled. "Just don't get shot down on your way to the can."

"Pfft, you're a riot McCloud," Tiger snorted as he pushed open the screen door and ambled to the toilet. The night was unusually warm and quiet, without the slightest puff of wind, meaning the inner metal door had been deactivated for the sake of ventilation. Through the thin, wire mesh, Fox could hear his wingman's lone footsteps on the sand for some time before they died away in the distance. Planting one foot firmly on the lower board, he scrambled back into bed, placing his hands behind his head as he allowed his eyes to drift aimlessly around the darkened room, its contents faintly illuminated by the pool of moonlight reflecting off the unpolished floorboards. In spite of the fact that the entire squadron shared the same sleeping quarters, the large, simple, and most importantly dry surroundings of the bunkhouse were far superior to the musty, four-man units back at Lake Caldwell. Naturally there was zero privacy, but that didn't bother him. Theirs was a close-knit team, and even Captain Kaminski slept, showered, and relaxed in the same room as the pilots under his command. They were more than just a unit—they were a family.

The sound of footfalls again heralded Tiger's return, the dull thudding steadily growing louder until he tramped up the wooden steps outside and eased open the screen with a low squeak of its rusty hinges. Kicking off his boots, he sighed and stretched out on the mattress below, but Fox could tell by the sound of his friend's breathing…and the soft, almost imperceptible noise of his tail tip patting the floor as it twitched back and forth, that he was very much awake…and most likely deep in thought.

"Hey Fox, are you still awake?"

"Yeah."

"I was just thinking…" Tiger murmured. "About tomorrow's mission…"

Fox rolled onto his belly and stretched, peering off the side of his mattress. "What about it," he asked.

"Well," said the big cat. "What if we find something down there? I mean something huge…something that the brass just can't ignore. Whaddya suppose they'll do about it?"

"Hell if I know," sighed Fox. "I'm just an ensign."

"Yeah, but I mean…what would you do if you were in their shoes?" Tiger sat up. "What if it's some kind of interplanetary missile system or…a biological weapons factory or…a cloaking battleship?"

Fox chuckled. "A cloaking battleship? Now how would we be able to see it if it was a cloaking battleship?"

"Oh stop dicking around," Tiger rolled his eyes. "Just answer the question."

"Well," Fox mused, rolling the thought about in his mind for a bit. "I'd tell Venom to give me a damn good explanation for it, give them a chance to remove it, and then blow it into next week if they didn't."

"Ahh," Tiger wagged a finger, shaking his head. "But that's just it right? We know the Great Council would never authorize it. Now that…thing on Macbeth could be a big pile of dirt, or it could be Armageddon, but they're not going to do a damn thing. They're gonna just sit on their asses and wait…until there's a big smoking crater where Corneria City's supposed to be."

"Hey, you're preaching to the choir Torayama," Fox nodded grimly. "I do read the news you know, and we both had to memorize the constitution back at the academy remember? Article 12 Paragraph 1: 'The armed forces of Corneria shall maintain adequate resources to ensure the security of the state and its people—no more and no less.'"

"Paragraph 2," Tiger muttered. "No unit of the armed forces of Corneria shall fire on a hostile until fired upon."

"Paragraph 3," the pilots sighed in unison. "The right to pre-emptive strikes interpreted in the context of self-defense shall not be exercised without a unanimous vote of approval by both houses of the Great Council."

"Which won't happen," said Fox. "Honestly, has their ever been a unanimous vote on anything since the foundation of the world government?"

"Hmph," Tiger scoffed. "They can't even unanimously agree on what to feed us for lunch."

Fox scratched his head, brows creasing. "It's a real problem though," he said. "I can definitely understand why they wrote those provisions into the law. Think about it...so many wars have been fought over the centuries that we can hardly keep track of them all. So many innocent people died for the same petty reasons...again and again and again. The people who united our world wanted to make sure we'd have a lasting peace."

"Yeah," Tiger nodded. "But there's one little problem in that great vision. Those people didn't know about Venom and Doctor Andross, now did they?"

"No they didn't," Fox muttered. "And because of that, our hands are tied."

"Oh there will be a lasting peace all right," said Tiger. "When all of us are dead in a surprise attack, there will be peace."

"Which is why we just have to keep our eyes open," Fox replied. "We can defend Corneria even if Venom attacks first. Just because we're surprised doesn't mean we can't fend off an invasion."

"Tell that to Captain Kaminski." Tiger's teeth were beginning to show. "How many times did he ask for supplies and equipment? How many times did he tell the brass that we didn't have the resources to do our jobs? They always just blow him off! They don't give a shit about what guys like us are seeing every day! I'm telling you Fox, this system is going to hell...and fast!"

"Hey, keep it down you two," hissed Trent, over in the next bunk. "Some of us ain't insomniacs over here."

Fox winced, noticing a few pilots in the nearby bunks were beginning to stir uncomfortably. "Whaddya say we talk about this on the way to the target tomorrow," he whispered to Tiger. "You and I should get some sleep. We've got a heavy day ahead of us."

"Yeah," Tiger mumbled, turning over onto his side. "And I'm the one whose gonna have the bull's-eye on my hull."

---

"Rise and shine Manuel," Captain Ricardo spoke softly as he stood over his chief science officer's stasis pod, disengaging the magnetic seal and rotating the manual release until it locked firmly into place. "We'll be coming out of light speed in a couple of minutes." A soft hiss of escaping gas greeting his ears, and the canopy swung open, bringing the disoriented occupant of the tiny chamber out of his deep slumber.

"Oh wow...my head," Lieutenant Manuel groaned, squeezing his eyes shut with a grimace.

"I know," the azure vulpine nodded. "I'm still a little out of it myself, but I need my crew to be at their posts. This is it."

"Aye sir." The junior officer slowly sat up, gingerly placing his weight onto his legs for the first time in five long seasons...and promptly collapsed onto one knee, narrowly escaping falling face-first into the deck plating. "Argh...my legs! They feel like jelly!"

Ricardo nodded, rubbing his own eyes with a yawn as he offered his free hand to assist his subordinate back to his feet. "It takes awhile for the effects to wear off. We may have been exercising in our sleep, but I'm afraid there's just no substitute for the real thing. Just take it slow."

"No, I'm all right sir." Manuel shook his head, regaining his feet with some effort and taking a few experimental steps around the room. This time his legs managed to work properly. "What about the others?"

"They're already awake," the captain replied, gesturing to the empty metal shells lying open on both sides of the compartment. "We let you take an extra couple of hours. It's your birthday remember?"

"So it is!" Manuel grinned. "The twenty-third day of Sangjeb. That makes me 34 cycles!"

"And you don't look a day over 29," Ricardo chuckled. "Come on. Let's get to the bridge."

A short walk down the main corridor, a narrow affair that forced passage in single-file, brought the pair to the cramped nerve center of the great silver bird. Given both the overwhelming importance of the mission and not knowing what to expect while being so far from home, absolutely no space had been wasted. Every last piece of real estate had been packed with instruments of all shapes, sizes, and types. The fact that anyone could navigate the massed controls with appreciable speed was as commendable as their design and fabrication, but there was little time to contemplate such thoughts now. The only thing that mattered was that every system was at peak readiness...down to the very last transistor relay.

Ricardo took his seat and strapped himself in securely with little fanfare, quickly making a note of the time and date before bracing himself for the abrupt deceleration sequence. The faint point of red light that had beckoned them from Cerinia's night skies was now brighter than anything else nearby, and even with the adaptive filters on the external viewports, he found himself squinting as the approaching solar disc grew ever larger in his field of vision.

"FTL drive deactivation in 5...4...3...2...1—"

The words had hardly left the pilot's mouth before the Aurora shuddered violently under the strain of its powerful braking mechanisms. The captain winced, gripping the armrests tightly as the restraints dug into his uniform, thankful for whatever systems were bearing the brunt of the extreme inertia. Without them, the entire crew would have been vaporized instantly as they crashed into the bulkheads. It was nothing he couldn't handle, but somehow he felt skipping lunch had been a prudent course of action. At last, the unblinking points of light before them returned to their proper places, and with a final lurch, the ship came to a halt on the doorstep of a medium rocky world, just barely within the temperate zone of its stellar neighbor.

"Reading all stop sir," the pilot reported, gazing at the alien system in wonder. "We made it. We're really here!" For a few long moments, the crew fell abruptly silent as they took in their surroundings. Even Captain Ricardo found himself at a loss for words, overcome by the gravity of the situation. Here they were...the first people from Cerinia to ever travel so far and so fast, and to have the chance to visit planets so far away as to be invisible for even the most powerful of their ground based observatories. This was a moment that would be forever etched in his memory, and in the history of the world. It was a moment to be treasured and savored to the fullest.

"Incredible," breathed Manuel, his eyes large as he finally came to his senses and almost frantically began taking scans of everything in sensor range. "I can make out at least four nearby planets, and that's just a short range sweep. I don't think one season will be long enough to do this system justice. There's just so much to see here. So much to explore!"

"Indeed," said Ricardo as he peered down at the rugged surface far below. "We may be the first beings to ever see this place up close."

"I don't think so sir," Manuel exclaimed. "Take a look at those lights down there! Those aren't forest fires! They're cities!"

Ricardo rose from his seat, moving to get a better look at the twinkling points, cloaked in darkness on the far side of the planet, over his science officer's shoulder as they gradually came into view. "Then we're dealing with a civilization down there?"

"Yes sir," replied Manuel. "And a pretty advanced one by the looks of it. There's evidence of radio transmissions, and I can see what looks like a rail network. There are even some artificial satellites in low orbit."

Satellites? The captain scratched his chin as his mind considered the possibilities. If the aliens below had the technology to create satellites, were they also aware of the Aurora's presence? This was all happening a little faster than he had expected. "What kind of satellites," he asked.

"I'm not sure sir, but they're moving awfully fast."

Ricardo's ears cupped forward. Something was...not quite right about the metallic objects that were approaching from over the curve of the horizon below. For one thing, they were overtaking the ship much more rapidly than any satellite he had ever previously observed. That, and the fact that they were changing direction—once…twice...three times as he watched—was bothering him. One would set the pace, and the others would follow, almost like birds in flight...or fighters in formation. "Those aren't satellites," he said. "They're alien ships!"

---

"How's it comin' over there Tiger," asked Fox, carefully matching speeds with his wingman as he formed up to starboard.

"I'm making my final pass right now," Tiger replied. "We might just pull this off after all."

"No worries Torayama. I've got your back," Fox assured him. "You just concentrate on flying straight and level."

"Roger that." Without another word, Tiger peeled away and dove for the deck...and the demarcation line separating interplanetary space and Venom's sovereign territory. Moments later, his fighter slowed to a crawl, its sensors set to maximum power. It was at this point that his comrade was most vulnerable. Yet for all Fox's vigilance, he had not seen so much as a single enemy contact. His sensor display was completely clear. It was quiet...too quiet for two Cornerian ships practically within spitting distance of Macbeth. Either the spotters were asleep, or something else was occupying their attention. One thing was certain...the Joint Chiefs would be pleased with five complete passes over the target region...the last practically grazing the line itself! Unfortunately, Fox could not say the same for himself. He could see the object clearly, even using the standard sensor package on his own fighter, and what he saw disturbed him. The lump on the map was no mountain, crater, or mound of earth. It was artificial, its perfectly round surface giving off a metallic sheen in the fading light as it approached sunset, only broken by what appeared to be scaffolding here and there on the outer edges. What the hell was Doctor Andross up to?

"Look at that thing!" Tiger exclaimed over the radio. "Is it a building? I've never seen anything like it!"

"You aren't the only one," said Fox. "Whatever it is...it's definitely not a peace offering."

"No joke," said Tiger. "It's bigger than a battleship, but it looks more like a dinner plate...and it's way too big to get into orbit. What the hell?" The big cat exclaimed. "I see all kinds of military vehicles all over the place. Armored personnel carriers…fuel trucks…speeders…looks to me like half the planetary garrison is down there."

Fox's muzzle wrinkled. "Well, the Great Council won't be able to ignore this one—no matter how blind, deaf, and stupid they could ever be. The question is...will they make up their minds on what to do about it before the shit hits the fan?"

"Well," said Tiger. "The sooner we get these scans to them, the better. I'm all done here. Let's get the hell out of here before we're discovered."

"Agreed," Fox nodded as he made a sharp turn away from the planet, throttling back just enough for his wingman to overtake him. "We'll be in the clear as soon as we get past the moon."

"Yeah..." Tiger's voice was skeptical. "Fox, is it just me, or has this all been WAY too easy?"

Fox exhaled sharply, glancing at his comrade's barely discernable form off his port wing. "No Torayama…it's not just you. Frankly, I'm surprised we're not beating a dozen bandits off our tails right now. It's like there's no one watching down there...and we practically marched up to their front door and knocked!" Before he could say anything further however, a faint blip on his sensor display caught his attention. "I think I just found the answer..."

"Confirmed," said Tiger. "I'm reading weapons fire on the far side of the planet and at least six separate heat signatures. They're Venomian interceptors all right! Maybe they're conducting a training exercise."

"I don't think so." Fox shook his head. "The Venomian military never does training here. They're too worried about accidentally blowing their big ammo dumps by accident. They wouldn't be firing unless they were dealing with a real threat..." A shadow crossed his face, "...or a real victim." His hands jerked back on the control stick as he pulled sharply up and away, heading back toward the planet as fast as his craft would carry him.

"Hey!" Tiger called. "Where the hell are you going?"

"I'm going to find out what's going on," Fox replied, shunting shield and weapons power to his engines. The fighter surged forward, inertia from the sharp acceleration pressing him firmly against the back of his seat. "You go on home. I'll be right behind you."

"The hell I am," retorted Tiger, banking and starting to follow. "You can't just go charging over there all by yourself! What if you get flamed?"

"I won't get flamed," Fox replied calmly, his voice level.

"We have to stick together," urged Tiger. "What kind of a wingman do you take me for? I'm not going to save my own hide and have you throw your life away!"

"Tiger, listen to me," said Fox. "Don't worry about it. You just get back to base as fast as you can. Those scans you're carrying are too valuable. They're worth both our lives several times over. I won't be long...I promise!"

"This isn't part of the mission," said Tiger. "If you want me to go home, you're coming with me. You can't just take off on your own like that!"

"Oh yes I can," said Fox. "Tiger, our mission is to gather intelligence right?"

"Right," Tiger said, not entirely convinced.

"Then I'm gathering intelligence on that battle," said Fox. "You've got your data, and I'm going to get mine. Besides...what if it's a Cornerian ship? Maybe it's a civilian star liner that got off course...or some of those poor miners trying to defect? They'll be sitting ducks!"

"One fighter won't exactly even the odds," Tiger cautioned.

"Maybe not," said Fox. "But I might be able to distract those interceptors long enough to let whoever they're attacking get away in one piece."

Tiger sighed. "All right," he said grudgingly. "Just make sure you don't stay one second longer than you have to." With that, he pulled high right and soon disappeared from view among the stars.

Fox eyed the sensor grid impatiently as he streaked toward the blips ahead of him. "Damn it," he muttered to the Corneria Fighter. "C'mon baby...can't you go just a little faster? Just this once," he coaxed. But the throttle was wide open, the whole craft shuddering violently as it threatened to fairly fly itself apart under the stress. There wasn't a single amp of power that he hadn't already redirected to the propulsion system. All he could do was grip the stick and wait, and the waiting was torture. The fact that he didn't know what was going on...who was in the line of fire...that made it all the worse. The seconds ticked by slowly...every one of them seeming to last forever, and they might as well have been an eternity, for in a dogfight, time was as valuable as life itself. If you were a split second too late, you were dead. If only he were back in the seat of that Arwing right now!

At last, the blips on the grid entered visual range. Lumbering sluggishly and trailing flaming plasma from one engine was a ship he did not recognize...small, clumsy, and looking as if it belonged in a museum. What kind of relic was this? No shields, no weapons, and a hull of titanium alloy? Beset on all sides, five Venomian fighters circled like sharks, taking shots at the hapless vessel between them at will. There was no mistaking it. With a single volley, any one of those interceptors could have destroyed the ship, but instead, they were toying with their victim, killing it slowly and painfully as they battered it again and again, their cannons set to minimum power. Such cold-blooded cruelty!

_Kzzzzt!_

"Huh?"

_Gzzzzzzzzrrgggggrhzzzzzzzzzzzt!_

A transmission? The unidentified craft was trying to raise him, but the signal was so primitive that his comm. system was having trouble deciphering it. Restoring his power allocation to normal, he managed to bring the image on the lower portion of his HUD into focus. Materializing from the snow and static was a compartment filled with leaking gas, showers of sparks, and a crew of strange vulpines…their coats a deep shade of blue. The nearest, a female with a long, bloody cut on her right cheek, began to speak earnestly in her native tongue. Though her words were unintelligible, the look of abject terror on her face transcended all barriers of language and culture—a universal plea for deliverance.

"Just hang on," he said, trying to reassure the being in front of him. "I'm here to help you." How close were they to the demarcation line? A quick glance back to his instruments told him the entire group was still in interplanetary space, neutral ground that he could legally enter, but they were drifting...slowly and steadily toward Macbeth. He wouldn't have much time to act.

"What's going on over there Fox," came Tiger's voice over the comm. "Is it miners?"

"No," Fox replied. "You're not going to believe this, but it's an alien ship."

"No kidding," Tiger exclaimed. "Are you for real?"

"I'm going to give them a hand," said Fox, throttling up and heading straight for the nearest Venomian fighter. "Try to get Titania on the horn for me. We'll add this one to Andross's rap list while we're at it." Ignoring the green targeting box on his HUD, the young pilot streaked under his enemy's wing, narrowly avoiding a collision as the opposing fighter shook violently in his engine wash. "All right you lowlifes! You wanna pick on somebody your own size?" Gritting his teeth, he rolled into a tight turn, his port wingtip nearly slicing across the canopy of another bandit. "C'mon asswipe! Over here!"

But the Venomians ignored Fox. Instead, they continued to circle slowly, their orange blaster bolts tearing into their victim's hull. Like a wounded animal, the unarmed vessel veered back and forth in a futile attempt to shamble away from its pursuers, bleeding fuel and oxygen through the breaches in its titanium skin. But there was no refuge to which it could flee for safety…no safe harbor to which it could run.

"What're you doing," Fox yelled, zipping back and forth in front of the interceptors. "I'm right here you scumbags! Fuck Andross!" Gesturing obscenely with his right hand, he swooped past the flight leader to no avail. "C'mon, damn it!" He had been so close that he had clearly seen the enemy pilot staring straight back at him. Why the hell weren't they taking the bait? On any given day, they would have loved an opportunity to shoot him down, provocations aside. Why was today so different?

"Aw, don't make me beg," he groaned. If only he could fire a few warning shots over their bows. That would get their attention and fast. Unfortunately, such a move was a violation of the rules of engagement that had been drilled into him since his first day at the academy. No, starting a firefight was out of the question. "But what if," he mused. "What if I just lock onto them?" As long as he didn't fire the first shot, it was still legal right? At least he'd be obeying the letter if not the spirit of the law. The vulpine winced as the tin can in front of him lurched under another barrage of blaster fire. It was now or never. Pulling over and behind one of the enemy fighters, he charged his nose cannons and lined up the target in his sights, watching the crosshairs on the HUD glow red. "You'd better be glad I'm just shitting you," he said.

The effect was immediate. Jerking his head around, no doubt in response to the warning klaxons in his own cockpit, the Venomian pilot abruptly broke off his attack, making a sharp turn as he tried to shake the Cornerian fighter off his tail.

"Oh no you don't!" Fox grinned. "You're not getting away that easily." It was time to put all those combat maneuvering exercises to good use. Banking sharply to one side and then the other, the two wove back and forth, the enemy pilot trying desperately to clear his six and Fox matching his every move.

"Nice try, but you're going to have to do better than that!"

The black fighter rolled over and over, pulling out of an Immelman turn and streaking past the alien ship. Suddenly he throttled back, attempting to use his former prey to cover his six, keeping the aliens between him and the other craft. Unfortunately for Fox, the tactic worked, causing his targeting computer to lose the smaller silhouette behind the fractured hull of the primitive vessel. "Damn it," he cursed. The enemy pilot had given him the slip, and his comrades weren't happy. Swiftly forming up on their leader, the entire flight turned away from the disabled hulk and headed straight for the lone Cornerian—their only true threat.

"Well, now that I have your attention," Fox muttered under his breath. Flipping onto his back and pulling back on the stick, he traced a wide arc down and away, his pursuers hot on his tail. "That's right," he nodded. "I'm the one you want. Pay attention to me." He grunted, g-suit hissing sharply as he broke hard left and cut the throttle in an attempt to evade the nearest ships, which were almost in gun range. Three bandits shot past, unable to keep up with him in the tight turn, but a loud klaxon warned that the remaining Venomian pilot was attempting a missile lock.

"So, you wanna play hardball do you?" A quick check of his sensor grid put the bandit on his six at just over a kilometer away—too close for him to outrun the warhead. He broke hard right, again closing the throttle, but the Venomian leader was too smart to be fooled by the same move twice in a row. Hanging back, he lined up the green and white interceptor in his crosshairs.

_KRRR! KRRR! KRRR!_

"Oh shit!"

A concussive warhead leapt from beneath the enemy's wing, a bright flash heralding its launch as it made a beeline for Fox's canopy. They really were trying to kill him! The missile was a powerful weapon, able to deliver a mortal blow with a single shot if it struck an engine or blasted through the cockpit's thin skin. In all honesty, it didn't matter where the missile struck. With five-to-one odds, even a non-fatal hit would leave the Cornerian pilot a sitting duck, easily finished off with little effort. His first taste of combat, and here he was, staring death right in the face, but there was no time to contemplate that now. Acting on instinct, he punched the throttle wide open, his other hand jettisoning one of his three countermeasure flares. No luck! Like a cobra chasing a fleeing rodent, the missile snaked around the decoy, hungering after his engine...seeking it with all its might. It was gaining. No matter how Fox tried to jink and weave, it kept coming, riding the ion trail straight up his tailpipe.

"Shit! _Shit-Shit-Shit!"_ He yelled, launching another flare. Again the missile ignored the smaller target, brushing it aside like it wasn't even there. It was only a dozen meters from his tailfin now…its crimson glow reflecting off his instrument panel! It would only be a matter of seconds before it overtook him. Quickly he pressed the red button on the side of his helmet, pressurizing his flight suit as his hand hovered over the ejection handle…

_"Now, this is your last resort…"_

_Lieutenant Commander Maxwell's chalk made soft clacking sounds as he rapidly sketched an outline of a planet and the various layers of its atmosphere._

"_In an emergency situation, should you be unable to return to base, make a landing elsewhere, or ditch, and your craft is in imminent danger of being destroyed, you can eject by pulling the handle above your head firmly toward you. This will ignite two sets of charges, one blowing your canopy clear, and the other firing the thrusters attached to the bottom of your seat…"_

"_Sounds like one helluva ride," Bill whispered, leaning ever so slightly toward Fox. "It'd be kinda fun if you weren't about to die."_

"_Yeah," Fox whispered back. "Dad says it's like being blown out of a cannon—"_

"_Mr. McCloud, Mr. Grey, are you two looking to march off another ten demerits on the drill grounds this afternoon?" Maxwell's face was unsmiling._

"_No sir," said Bill, straightening up in his seat._

"_No sir," said Fox, solemnly retrieving his pen. Thanks to Falco, they'd be spending four hours on the track anyway, marching under the blazing summer sun with heavy rifles on their shoulders. He chanced a furtive glance at his watch. It was 1423…not even halfway through the lecture. Sometimes he could have sworn Maxwell slowed the passage of time, minutes seeming to drag by like hours, and hours like days. Though an excellent pilot, his instructor always managed to suck all life from the material, leaving it bone dry. Wearily, he forced himself to sit up straight and tall, filling his notebook with black ink._

"_If you're anywhere above this line, make sure you seal your suit before you eject—unless you're a radiation proof, self-heating mutant that can hold your breath for hours on end," continued Maxwell. "Should you bail out in space, the emergency transponder in your helmet will act as a beacon to any ships in the vicinity. That being said, while a rescue ship will try to pick you up as quickly as possible, there is no guarantee an enemy won't pick up the signal first. If you're too close to enemy space, you can deactivate the beacon, but you might end up running out of air before you can be located visually."_

_"Great," thought Fox. This lecture was getting better all the time._

"_If you don't go out with your craft, suffocate, or get picked off by an enemy pilot," Maxwell said, "there is also the possibility that you may be captured." His face was grim. "The Venomian military is well known for its inhumane treatment of prisoners. While there isn't much to go on, it is thought that they routinely torture captives, subject them to a variety of cruel and unusual punishments, send them to slave labor camps, or execute them outright by various barbaric means." He paced back to the small podium. "Ladies and gents, ejecting over enemy territory is a pilot's worst nightmare. It is my sincere hope that none of you will experience it, but…should you find yourself in that situation, these are your options. Consider them well, and consider them in advance. When you're in a dogfight, you won't have much time to make the call."_

Live or die? Go out in a fireball, or take a chance of getting captured? His gripped the handle uncertainly…

"_They clubbed us senseless, and the next thing I knew, we were waking up in a prison cell…"_

Peppy's words came flooding back into his thoughts.

"They beat him, they tortured him…" 

Fox frowned as a crazy idea sprung to life. Easing back on the throttle, he closed the distance between his ship and the missile, his fingers moving instead to jettison the last countermeasure. "Well Dad," he said. "If this doesn't work, I'll be seeing you soon." Taking a deep breath, he launched the flare and cut his engine entirely.

The missile was instantly upon him. A flash of light blotted out the stars as the warhead detonated, the shockwave tossing the fighter end over end like a leaf on the wind…but it remained intact. He was alive! Breathing a sharp sigh of relief, he quickly checked for damage. Aft shields were out of commission, an oxygen tank was punctured, and the afterburner was not responding…probably damaged by flying shrapnel. Amazingly however, most of the primary systems were still functional, though he could endure no more punishment from the rear. Another direct hit would finish him for sure.

"Pfft, you missed me," he chuckled dryly. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

A couple fighters were returning their attention to the crippled alien ship, which was finally starting to make its escape, limping clear of the combat area. If he could keep the Venomians busy for just a little longer, Fox was confident the strangers could leave the system in one piece.

"No you don't! I'm your opponent now!" Streaking forward, he lined up an unsuspecting bandit in his sites. This time he could return fire!

"Come back here—"

"Recon 1, this is Home Plate…"

"Damn it," Fox muttered under his breath. "Not now. Please not now!"

"Recon 1, this is Home Plate. If you can hear me, respond."

"Home Plate, this is Recon 1," said Fox, trying to keep up with the enemy fighter as it slowly but surely outpaced him. Behind him, two more were in hot pursuit. "I'm a little tied at the moment," he said.

"Recon 1, you are to disengage and return to base immediately."

"Understood," said Fox, starting to lose his target. "I'm covering a ship in distress. As soon as they make their escape, I'll bring it home."

"Negative Recon 1," replied the tower. "You are to proceed to base. Disengage at your earliest opportunity—"

Suddenly the voice on the comm. was replaced by one that was much more familiar.

"McCloud, this is Kaminski. You heard the man! Break off and get back here on the double!"

"Sir," replied Fox. "That ship out there…it's completely defenseless. If I bug out now—"

"I know about the ship," said Kaminski. "Torayama gave us the details just a little while ago, and it's a damn shame, but there's nothing we can do for those people."

"I can keep these bandits off their backs," said Fox, grunting as he barely dodged a stream of blaster bolts. Forced off his target, he made a sharp turn to the right, rolling onto his starboard wing. "They'll be out of range in a few minutes. Request permission to stay sir."

"Denied," said Kaminski.

"Sir, they're an innocent party—some kind of primitive civilization. With all due respect, I can't just stand by and watch them be killed."

"Oh yes you can," the squadron commander replied. "And you will. Now, get your tail back here before you get shot down."

"I won't get shot down sir—" Fox began.

"Damn it kid," shouted Kaminski. "Don't you realize where you are? This is Macbeth! Are you planning to go in there and start your own fucking war over one ship?!"

"I'm on our side of the line si—"

"You think that'll make a difference to Andross," Kaminski thundered. "You've already done too much! Now you get your ass back here right now…that's an ORDER!"

"Sir please…" Fox ground his teeth, silently urging the small craft on the edge of his grid to hurry. He was squeezing the control stick so tightly that his knuckles were completely numb. All he could think about was that despairing look on the female alien's face, the depth of her fear and anguish. How could he let her and the rest of her crew join the countless victims of Doctor Andross and his underlings?

"I'm finished debating ethics with you Ensign McCloud!" Kaminski yelled. "You either come back RIGHT NOW, or you'd better never come back. If you do, I'll have you shot down on site! BREAK OFF AND COME HOME!"

"UUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!!!!" Fox howled in frustration. As another set of enemy bullets streaked past his canopy, he punched the stick sharply to one side. Well, this was it. Both he and his craft were committed to one fate, and one fate alone. He had made his decision. Yet, even now, he knew with all his heart that he would relive this moment again and again in memory for the rest of his days, creeping into his thoughts while he was awake, and haunting his nightmares when he slept. Eternally he would be at a loss, wondering again and again if his decision had been the right one, and how things might have been different had he chosen the other path.

"No," cried Manuel. "He's disengaging! The other ship is disengaging! Come back," he pleaded. "Please! Please come back!!"

HHHHHHHHRRRRRRRROOOOOOOM!!! 

The Aurora shook violently from bow to stern, rocked by another salvo as the black alien fighters resumed the full fury of their assault. Captain Ricardo could only watch helplessly as they came around again and again, their endless rounds pouring into the side of the ship. The silver bird, once so proud and beautiful was a wreck, and Manuel's cries were swiftly silenced, as a ceiling rivet gave way, sending one of the main beams plummeting down on him. Dead. In an instant, his crew's bright young prodigy was dead…crushed like an insect. So too was the comm. officer, her blood dripping from her instrument panel to form a small pool beneath her seat. Only he and the pilot remained, the young man at the helm still valiantly preparing to jump back to light speed, but it was over. They didn't have a prayer.

Ricardo grimly sank back into his chair, gripping hard as a tremendous explosion tore through the bowels of the great ship. It should have bothered him…bothered him that the mission was an utter failure, bothered him that decades of research, hard work, and sacrifice were to be obliterated after less than a single day, bothered him that he and his crew would die here at this distant point of light in the night skies, their atoms cast adrift on the stellar winds into the dark, frigid depths of space for all eternity, never to find rest in their family tombs…but it didn't bother him. What bothered him, more than anything, was that he would not be coming home. In his final moments, all he could think about was home, of his darling wife that he would never hold in his arms again, of Maria, who would never know her father, and of Sebastian, who would grow to manhood, and stride onto the train platform five seasons from now to wait expectantly for a train that would never come.

As the ship lurched in its death throws, the captain reached into his shirt pocket, pulling forth a small photograph of his family, the one he always carried next to his heart.

"Until we meet again," he murmured softly, looking into the faces of his wife and children for the last time. "Sebastian…forgive me."

In a blinding flash, the bridge's smoking interior turned pure white. The deck pitched wildly. The bulkheads shattered like glass, their fragments scattering like scraps of paper in a strong breeze. Blown apart by a final shot to its engine core, the great bird disintegrated in a massive ball of fire and was no more.

---

"Enter!"

Fox stepped over the threshold and walked into Kaminski's office, numbly placing a single data pad on his superior officer's desk. "My report sir," he mumbled, standing quietly as the outer door slid shut with a whirr and a soft click.

"Ah, thank you," the husky nodded. Picking it up, he began to review the details of the afternoon's incident, his thumb tapping the screen softly now and then as he scrolled from page to page. "You certainly took your time putting this one together," he commented after a moment. "I was beginning to worry." Lifting his eyes, his brows creased as he watched the young pilot, still standing in the center of the room, feet apart, head bowed, his right fist shaking as it hung clenched at his side. "Something on your mind," the squadron commander asked.

Fox remained silent.

"Well?"

The vulpine raised his head, ears slowly swiveling backward. "Permission to speak freely sir…"

Kaminski laid the pad to one side, his somber blue eyes looking deep into Fox's angry green ones. Nodding once, his expression seemed all too knowing, as if he could read the young man's mind, already quite aware of the pent up tirade that waited to burst from his mouth.

"We let them die," said the squadron commander.

Fox's brows rose as he heard his own words emerging from his CO's mouth.

"Macbeth, high orbit, one Cornerian fighter against five Venomian interceptors…and a defenseless ship in distress," said Kaminski. "Could that fighter have scored a tactical victory all by itself? Unlikely." He rose to his feet, coming to stand face-to-face with Fox. "Could that fighter have occupied the aggressors long enough for that ship to escape? Yes."

A brief but heavy silence descended as the captain paused, contemplating thoughts unknown. Looking back at the vulpine, Kaminski waited, allowing his words to sink in, to have their full effect. Then, the veteran pilot spoke again.

"So, in that knowledge, why did I order you to bug out and run for home? Was it because I value one bird and one pilot above the lives of strangers?" Kaminski shook his head. "No. On the contrary, you and I both know that the first duty of each and every pilot is to serve and protect those who are weak, those who cannot defend themselves, regardless of whether they are strangers or family. That being said, let's say you and I followed our first instincts earlier today. We jumped in there, beat off those Venomian bastards, and those people escaped with their lives in that tin can of theirs. How many lives would we have saved…a few dozen maybe…certainly not more than thirty? I'm not telling you that numbers make lives any more or less valuable, but what if you had ended up killing one or two of those Venomian pilots? What if Andross used that excuse to start a war…a war that could cost billions of lives and bring this entire star system to ruin?"

Fox sighed. As cunning as the diabolical ape was, why oh why did General Pepper choose to exile him to Venom rather than placing him in a maximum security prison on Corneria, where he could rot under the watchful gaze of the capital police and all the Cornerian people? If that had been the case, he would have never agitated the convicts of the prison planet's great communes to revolt, encouraged thousands of formerly loyal citizens to defect, and enslaved the native population of lizards to do his bidding. There would have been no Venomian Empire, no bloodthirsty interceptor pilots to kill hapless explorers and no threat of apocalyptic war.

"We don't know if he would have done it," said Kaminski. "Frankly, I believe that when he's ready, he will furnish his own excuse to strike. The scans you and Tiger brought back today have only reaffirmed my conviction that war is inevitable. But…" The canine paused. "Until that terrible day comes, we must strive to prevent such a war at all costs. For the sake of everyone in Lylat, we must do our duty, follow the will of the Great Council, and defend the peace until the last possible moment."

Returning to his seat, the husky folded his hands in front of him, his expression becoming softer. "And sometimes there is no perfect answer, but as commander of this squadron, it is my responsibility to do what I believe is right to ensure that peace, regardless of what I would do personally…and that holds for the men under my command. I understand your feelings," he nodded. "But when I make the call," he said, looking Fox squarely in the eye, "the discussion is over, and I expect your complete and immediate obedience. As long as you are under my command kid, you will carry out my orders."

"I'm sorry sir," said Fox, his mind made up at last. "But I'm afraid I just can't sit idle and watch Andross slaughter innocent people right in front of me." First his father, and now those alien explorers had perished, and he had been unable to protect any of them. "I'm not about to wait until he kills enough people for the Great Council to come to its senses," he said. "I'm going to do something about it." Pulling a second pad from the pocket of his uniform, he placed it on the desk in front of his commanding officer.

"What is this," Kaminski frowned, picking up the pad and skimming through its contents.

"That," said Fox, "is my resignation sir." Bowing his head, he reached for the golden wings pinned to his chest. Stripped of them? No. Voluntarily, he was giving up the wings he had longed after ever since he was a kit, the wings he had suffered so much to earn. The great eagle felt heavy in his palm, as if it too did not wish to leave him. It was more than just unclipping a pin. It felt more like he was severing part of his own body. Somehow, he unclasped his fingers, sending it clattering onto the desk in front of him. Then, he walked away.


End file.
